Fire Inside
by Beth aka Midge
Summary: Nathan's life before Four Courners


1 Fire Inside  
  
1.1 By Beth aka Midge  
  
OW Story (Nathan)  
  
Notes: This story takes place right after the episode 'The Trial', and right before the death of Nathan's father. It deals a lot with the issue of slavery and subsequently the brutalities suffered upon slaves by their masters prior to and during the Civil War.  
  
"Everybody," explained a former slave, "wants the privilege of whipping somebody else." Quote from the book; Brother Against Brother, The War Begins.  
  
Special Thanks: Antoinette, Katherine, and Julie…  
  
  
  
1.2 Foreword  
  
1874  
  
Obadiah Jackson leaned back against the headboard and pillows of his son's bed. He watched his boy move around the room, trying to come up with an herbal cure for his consumption. No matter what he did, he wouldn't find one. Obadiah knew he was dying, and he'd finally come to terms with that. Nathan, however, refused. After having just found his father after almost fifteen years, he wasn't willing to give up.  
  
The West had given him an opportunity that the South had denied him. And it wasn't just freedom. Here in Four Corners he had a purpose, a position, and most importantly…respect. As a slave those things didn't exist, but as a free man they did. Those things couldn't be bought or sold, but rather, they could only be earned. With purpose, a position, and the respect also came the guilt of not having really earned it. Strange as it seemed, as a former slave Nathan harbored feelings only he or another slave could know or feel. Nobody else who wasn't there ever could.  
  
Death was something Nathan had learned to deal with. More so than most men his age in his chosen professions, working as both a healer and hired gun. It was never easy watching a life dissipate. Losing a parent was something every child had to face. Nathan had faced Death before, in many different manners, but now it was personal. He was watching his father slowly die. The consumption was slowly drowning him; literally it was eating away his lungs. Nathan could only watch. Even the best of doctors couldn't save a patient suffering from the illness. It was a death sentence. The only uncertainty was the where and when it chose to occur.  
  
"Here, Daddy," Nathan said, handing his father a hot cup of tea. "Drink that, it'll help."  
  
"Ain't nothin' goin' to help me now," Obadiah replied, but he drank the brew anyway.  
  
Nathan seated himself on the chair next to the bed. Four weeks hadn't been long enough to recover from fifteen years of loss, not nearly enough. "Why didn't you ever tell me…'bout momma?"  
  
"I didn't want you growin' up not understandin' the pain she went through…she wouldn't have wanted it that way." He coughed into his handkerchief leaving crimson stains embedded in the fine fabric.  
  
Nathan shook his head. The bleeding was getting worse, and the coughing more frequent. "I would'ave understood."  
  
"No," Obadiah replied, "you wouldn't have." He resituated himself on the bed and made himself more comfortable. "The day your momma died…" he shook his head, momentarily unable to reply, "I knew in my heart I'd lost more than I could ever replace."  
  
Nathan reached down and squeezed his father's hand, trying to offer some comfort in any manner he could.  
  
"The night you escaped, I knew you'd find freedom…to know the feeling of not belonging to anyone but yourself." Obadiah smiled proudly. "The thought of my son bein' a free man…"  
  
The healer looked at his father, feeling suddenly undeserving of his father's praise. "I wanted you to come."  
  
"I couldn't…" Obadiah shook his head. "You were always such a smart boy." He smiled, looking at his son, "I wish your momma could see you now…she'd be so proud."  
  
Nathan squeezed his father's hand again, trying to offer some sort of comfort. Judge Travis had, in a way, shown sympathy toward Obadiah's situation. He wouldn't hang…instead, he live for as long as he could with an illness that was slowly killing him. Nathan was thankful, not that his father was dying, but rather because he'd had the chance to gain some much needed peace. When he'd left the plantation so long ago he knew in his heart he'd never see his father again. It was Obadiah that urged him to run…it was he that gave his son the strength to leave when he did.  
  
Nathan looked around the room…his room, and sighed. None of this would have been possible if it wasn't for his past. A man's past is what made up his future, nobody knew that better than the healer. People of all kinds came to him in need of service, him, a former slave…a slave that had been beaten and whipped into submission. Not anymore. Now, Nathan made up his own mind, made his own decisions, and followed his own heart. He was his own master. But it didn't used to be that way. No. Not so long ago none of this would have been possible.  
  
1.3 Chapter 1  
  
1.4 1851  
  
By the age of 12 Nathan was working in the fields of the Alabama plantation he, his father, and his two sisters had been sold to five years earlier. His sisters worked in the big house, and he hadn't seen them in over two years. Master Jackson didn't allow his 'house niggers' to socialize with his 'field niggers'. Already Nathan's hands were worn, callused, and unsightly. He never knew anything else…other than being a slave. He worked from sun up until sundown, and many times later, depending on the brightness of the moon. They were treated like animals, owned like property, and many times discarded like garbage. Nathan hated it! He hated the poor treatment, the submissiveness, and the sheer humility of it. Slaves were matched for marriage on the basis of their looks so they could produce more slaves, stronger slaves, and harder working slaves. Women were often forced into relations with the plantation's white overseers. And then there were the slaves who were beaten, whipped, and placed in irons. Punishments were always conducted in front of other slaves, that way they understood the repercussions of disobeying an order.  
  
This was not the life meant for him. Nathan was sure of it. There was a burning inside that wouldn't let him rest, and wouldn't let him be satisfied living from day to day under the threats of the plantation owner. Mr. Jackson wasn't a man who tolerated much. Though he portrayed himself as a Christian man with high morals and decorum, his slaves saw him differently.  
  
Ethan Jackson was a short man with a bulging middle and long cold fingers. He was never without…anything, whether it be servants, food, or fancy attire. His slaves were just that, slaves. They were treated no better or worse than the cattle and horses he owned. He made trips into town every month to purchase more slaves as disease, illness, and poor care, took many of the ones he already owned. He didn't see a profit in hiring a doctor to see to his servants. Instead he allowed them to treat each other much like they would for his stock.  
  
******  
  
Nathan pulled the cotton from the shaft of the plant he was working on and then shoved it into the sack on his back that was growing heavy with the fiber. Night was falling, thankfully, and the cloud cover ensured him an early night to bed. Singing filled the air, and that was the only thing that could bring him comfort. The deep soulful sounds echoed in the air like honey. He knew the songs were filled with messages, messages that the overseer didn't understand, if he did, they wouldn't be aloud to sing.  
  
They weren't animals. No. They were much more than that…much more.  
  
******  
  
When the bell rang everyone stood up from their knees and started for their 'homes'. The end of the day had arrived, and that meant rest. Obadiah helped his son with his satchel as they headed out of the fields. After working eleven hours with only one fifteen minute break everybody's bones were aching. Nathan sucked on his pinky after having sliced it on one of the cotton plants. The things were full of thorns and made it even harder to pull the white fiber from them.  
  
Everyone walked in silence, uttering not a word. Nathan and Obadiah shared their home with nine others. In reality it could hardly be called a home. The roof leaked, and the wind would slice through the walls like a knife through paper. Winters were always the hardest, but summers more deadly being filled more with illness and death.  
  
Nathan seated himself on his bed, which was nothing more than two threadbare blankets, and an old coat for a pillow. Dinner consisted of bread and squash, meat was sometimes available, but not often enough to supply sustenance. He looked around the room and sighed. That burning desire to one day get free was eating at him and he couldn't stop the yearning.  
  
******  
  
Nathan woke before the crack of dawn listening only to the comforting sounds of those breathing deeply around him. The morning work bell had yet to be rung and for that he was thankful. It was times like these that he could think about his future and what he wanted to do with it. Freedom, such a simple thing really, while at the same time…the most valued. The freedom to choose, go where he wanted, and the freedom to decide his own fate. He'd heard stories of slaves that had run away and gone North, some had even escaped and gone West. Their fates were unknown, but the stories that had followed their escapes captured the attention of everyone who dreamed of freedom.  
  
The sharp sound of the work bell woke everyone from their sleep. Many had already awoken, but instead of getting up they stared into space thinking about things that only they knew. With only twenty minutes to eat, dress, and take care of any other need they might have, everyone moved around their homes like well-trained dogs.  
  
"Nathan Jackson!" The voice echoed across the grounds causing everyone to turn in stunned silence.  
  
Nathan stopped, more out of fear than anything else. He never knew what to expect. He lowered his gaze, not allowed to look a white man in the eyes.  
  
The plantation overseer stopped in front of the youth and with a motion of his head he ordered the slaves standing around to start walking toward the fields. Mister Ives placed his hands on his hips and looked at the young black man standing before him.  
  
"Master Jackson wants to see you," he said bitterly, as though the very words stung his tongue. "Now!" He yelped, and then chuckled softly when the boy rushed for the house.  
  
Obadiah watched his son, all the while praying that no harm would befall on him. Nathan was a smart boy, and one that wouldn't jeopardize the people around him for any cause. Obadiah quickly turned his attention back towards the fields. He didn't want to make things worse for his son, not by any means.  
  
1.5 Chapter 2  
  
The plantation house or 'Plethora' as it had been named, was a large beautiful home that lived up to its name. Congressmen from the state of Alabama had come to stay here, many times for parties and other times for business. White columns gave the home an even larger appearance and the gardens that surrounded the mansion truly created a masterpiece.  
  
The master's family consisted of his wife Anna Mae, and their two sons, John and Manning. Manning was the youngest, all of fourteen years of age and he was his father's favorite son. John was older and challenged his father in many subject areas, including slavery. Both boys were barrel- chested like their father, but they had their mother's fair complexion. Anna Mae was a small woman with blonde hair streaked with gold and she had large brown eyes. Naturally a quiet and submissive person, she spent her days doing needlepoint and knitting. Her husband's affairs were just that, his affairs, and she chose not to get involved.  
  
******  
  
Nathan waited outside the large home waiting for the master to exit. He knew if he went to the door and knocked he'd get punished, so it was better to wait. He could see the house servants moving around through the windows. He quietly wondered if his sisters could see him. He missed them both. When the back door opened he jumped back expecting Master Jackson to exit. Instead, it was the house cook dumping out the breakfast remains. She smiled shyly at the young boy and returned quickly to her duties.  
  
So much waste. Nathan sighed, looking at the food that had been discarded. Uneaten rolls and sausages sat in the buckets that would eventually go to feed the pigs. All that food would fill a house full of slaves, and yet nobody seemed to care…nobody important anyway.  
  
"Boy, get over here," the familiar sound of Master Jackson's voice filled the air.  
  
Nathan looked up then headed to where the plantation owner stood. His son Manning was next to him, looking as though he was next in line to inherit the world. Nathan kept his eyes cast downward as he approached the pair. He didn't want to be beat.  
  
Master Jackson tossed his slave a long blade. The sword felt awkward in his grasp. Nathan had never felt anything quite like it before, and the edge of the blade was sharp…sharp enough to kill with.  
  
"You'll be my son's sparing partner," Randolph Jackson said. "My suggestion to you, boy, is learn quickly." The tone of his voice wasn't lost on Nathan.  
  
Nathan looked up and caught sight of Manning wearing heavy clothing that would protect him from any kind of attack. The young slave boy also knew that if he harmed that boy in any way he would be punished. So, he had to learn how to defend himself with this weapon before he could use it for any good.  
  
Master Jackson moved out of the way, sitting at the table that had been moved into the yard for him. A glass of wine and a plate of rolls filled the table that rested perfectly under the large willow tree. Manning stood back and moved his sword in elegance. He knew how to use the weapon.  
  
"Is this a fair fight?" John asked, stepping out into the yard. He looked from his brother to his father and his eyes finally rested on the young boy being forced to fight.  
  
"Of course not!" Manning snapped, resting his hand on the handle of the steel weapon. "If it were equal he'd be white!" He shook his head in disbelief.  
  
John chuckled: "Is it less expensive to fight and kill a slave of no training than hire a white man who's been educated in the art of sword fighting?"  
  
"Yes," came the shrewd reply.  
  
John shook his head in disbelief. "You should open your eyes, brother. The world is changing…and not you or men like you can keep things as they are."  
  
"You're a fool, John," Manning snapped.  
  
"Then let me teach him… If I'm such a fool then he'll not learn anything and you're only out a few days." There was a glint in John's eyes that expressed a ray of hope within Nathan.  
  
"ENOUGH!" Master Jackson yelled, letting his glass hit the ground and then shatter. He stood up abruptly and stormed over to his sons. "I will not tolerate this 'abolitionist' talk!"  
  
Nathan stood back watching. It was turning out to be a truly eye-opening experience. They treated him as though he wasn't even there, he didn't exist in their eyes.  
  
"All I'm saying is the boy can be taught to fight," John yelled. "Would it not be better to fight an opponent of some skill, therefore improving your own?"  
  
Manning stood back and tentatively agreed. "I'll agree to that…if just to prove that these niggers ain't worth it!" He motioned coldly toward Nathan.  
  
Mr. Jackson grabbed the collar of his oldest son's shirt. "An educated nigger is still a nigger," he swore harshly into his son's face.  
  
John stood still, fear gripping his very being. His father was an intimidating man, but there were qualities about him that were good…just well hidden. John nodded his head in understanding and he sighed when his father released him.  
  
"Do what you will, but push my patience further…" he let his warning hang before moving angrily towards the house.  
  
Manning cocked an eyebrow and smiled. Once again he'd won his father's approval over his brother's. He kicked his rapier up, laying it across his arms. "Two days," he said with a grin.  
  
John turned his attention toward Nathan, who'd been all but forgotten. "Follow me," he ordered, walking towards the barn.  
  
******  
  
Even at the tender age of twelve, Nathan was tall and muscular. That's why he started working in the fields before most boys his age. The men and women he worked with knew him as a quiet boy, with an extraordinary gift of working with his hands. His patience and nerves of steel gave him the confidence that so many of his fellow friends lacked. Slaves never had the opportunities that white children had, as far as having playful games and exciting adventures. Instead they were submissive and taught to obey…no matter the chore. Those that didn't suffered the consequences.  
  
John grabbed his rapier from its storage space in the barn and then turned and looked at the much younger man standing in uncertainty near the door. Though there was five years difference between them, they both had visions of the future that were not accepted by the people running the plantation. One had the power to change and fight for what he believed…the other, could only voice his opinions in his head.  
  
"It's called a rapier," John said, moving closer to Nathan. "Have you ever seen one?" His voice was in tight control.  
  
"No, sir."  
  
"If you're going to fight with one of these, you'll need to look your opponent in the eye." John stood before his father's slave and waited until he turned his eyes upward. "I'll not harm you," he reassured.  
  
"No offense, sir, but it's not you I fear," Nathan said, surprising himself of his boldness.  
  
John laughed: "No, it's not me you have to fear. It is, however, my brother and my father that you must. So, it's necessary for you to understand what I tell you."  
  
Nathan nodded his head. He knew he should be grateful for John's willingness to teach him, and he didn't want to lose the opportunity. If he did…he'd die.  
  
John watched only for a moment, trying to decipher how he was going to teach this boy. Like any other, he thought to himself. If he were going to speak with the abolitionist movement in mind…then he was going to have to act with it as well. John moved in beside Nathan and started showing him some basic moves. John even went so far as to touch him, while showing him how to handle the blade in its proper manner and how to move and deflect oncoming thrusts.  
  
******  
  
"Why don't you train your brother?" Nathan asked, wanting to break the silence that had continued for so long. He knew he was taking a chance in asking, but it was as though his mouth was working without his mind.  
  
"My father asked me to…but I refused." John looked at his rapier, remembering better days. "My brother's weakness is his temper, remember that. Don't fight him, just defend yourself." He quickly changed the subject.  
  
Nathan nodded in understanding.  
  
John stopped and looked at the young man who was quickly growing on him. "Do you know how to read?"  
  
"No, sir," Nathan replied honestly.  
  
John nodded: "I can't teach you, but I can bring you some books so you can teach yourself."  
  
Nathan's eyes widened in anticipation, this was his first glimmer of hope.  
  
John understood the hunger in the slave's eyes. He didn't understand how strong it was, not by any means, but he did recognize the need. "I'll bring you some tomorrow…but don't let anyone know you have them."  
  
There was a hint of warning in John's voice, and Nathan understood that if he were caught with the 'paraphernalia' he'd be whipped. He'd take the chance anyway. If he learned how to read he could do more with his life.  
  
******  
  
There were two books, which was all John could hide under his shirt. When he handed the items to Nathan something happened. The plantation owner's son saw for the first time in his life the yearning desire in a slave to…better himself. He'd been raised around slaves all his life. They were a part of his culture, his upbringing, and his livelihood, but this was different.  
  
The writings of William Lloyd Garrison, John Greenleaf Whittier, and finally Harriet Beecher Stowe had indeed influenced him in many ways. His father had been right. The books he read were polluting his mind, but not in a bad way, but rather, a very good way. He watched Nathan handle the books, Uncle Tom's Cabin and a simple children's book that had been made out of cloth. It was simply a homemade quilt with the letters of the alphabet and an object starting with the letter, a simple tool for learning.  
  
John had discovered what he wanted to do with his life. He'd fight slavery with everything he could. He might not be able to help the slaves his father owned, but he could help those that had run and were in need of aid. Nathan wasn't the only child out there with a desire to learn and make his life better. The only difference between himself and Nathan was the color of their skin.  
  
"I can't thank ya enough," Nathan said shyly. He'd never had anyone give him anything of such value except his father.  
  
"We should practice," John replied, uncomfortable with the gratefulness of the slave boy.  
  
"Yes sir," came the quick reply. Nathan quickly hid the books under some straw, not wanting someone to walk into the barn and see them. He was going to learn. For the first time in his life there was something other than being a slave to grasp onto.  
  
Chapter 3  
  
Manning practiced his moves in the yard while his brother and father watched from their position under the willow tree. The boys' mother watched from the window, unwilling, or unable to move outside with the rest of them. The Alabama sun had heated the ground and the backs of those standing under it.  
  
Nathan stood back…watching. It had been two days since he'd been out in the fields, and truthfully he didn't miss it. He didn't care if he ever saw a cotton plant again. He looked over at John and saw the confidence he needed in order to defend himself against Manning. John had been right when he said his brother was 'overly aggressive'. Nathan wasn't dumb, and he watched his future opponent with careful eyes. His life depended on it.  
  
Master Jackson looked pleased with himself, obviously he was waiting for a quick kill. He sipped his wine elegantly, holding his pinky away from the finely crafted crystal. The rings on his fingers glistened in the sunlight, and his belly hung past his belt in a grotesque fashion. Even the clothing he wore reeked of wealth and privilege that, in Nathan's eyes, he didn't deserve.  
  
"I'm ready," Manning announced, standing proudly on the lush grass.  
  
Nathan moved forward raising his sword. All he had to do was defend himself. John had taught him well and he took those long lessons to heart, memorizing every word and action. Just because he'd never been taught how to read didn't mean he wasn't smart.  
  
Manning lunged forward in just the manner John had showed Nathan he would. Metal struck metal and the sharp sound filled the air. Birds flew out of the trees in escape creating moving shadows on the ground. Nathan continued to move back while deflecting the oncoming thrusts. Master Jackson's laughter had dissipated considerably.  
  
Nathan wasn't losing.  
  
Manning rushed forward, allowing his anger to drive him. This was supposed to be easy, but instead, this slave was deflecting all of his strikes. Everything he tried was stopped. Blinded by his anger he barely felt a dull pound to his right side. He stepped back and wiped his brow free of the sweat that had gathered there.  
  
"Did you hit me?" He asked the slave.  
  
Nathan stood silent, afraid to answer. He looked toward the ground and nodded his head. "Yes, sir," he answered softly, knowing he'd be punished.  
  
Manning raised his rapier and struck Nathan on the shoulder, cutting his shirt and slicing his flesh. Nathan grabbed his arm to stop the flow of blood. He knew it was his punishment.  
  
"He fought you fairly, Manning!" John snapped, getting to his feet.  
  
"He struck me!"  
  
"John's right," Master Jackson said, finishing the last of his wine. He then stood up slowly and walked over to where his boys stood.  
  
Both John and Manning stood back, shocked by their father's statement. Nathan looked up, slightly surprised as well. He'd struck the son of his master, something like that could have repercussions that he'd never recover from.  
  
"If you can't beat a slave who's only just learned how to fight…then perhaps you should reconsider your…talent?" Master Jackson looked disappointedly at his son. "Or maybe, have him instruct you."  
  
"What?" Manning asked in disbelief.  
  
"He said, 'have him instruct you'," John replied, feeling somewhat vindicated.  
  
"I know what he said!" Manning snapped. "If he's so good," he turned to his father, "why don't you spar with him."  
  
"I intend to," Master Jackson said. "Then you'll learn to fight with blades like you should, and not like some child," the words fell off his tongue like bitter wine.  
  
Manning threw his rapier to the ground and stormed towards the house. He wouldn't take being humiliated in front of a slave any longer. His brother and father watched him leave, not offering to stop him.  
  
"Boy," Jackson motioned for Nathan, "get down to the barn and clean these blades," he pointed to the one on the ground and the one in Nathan's hand, "and, I recommend you practice…for tomorrow." The big man turned and left, following in his son's footsteps.  
  
"You did real good, Nathan," John slapped the young boy on his shoulder, not realizing he'd hit his wounded arm. John looked at the blood on his hand and then back to his father's slave. The blood was red…just like his own. "You get a chance to look at those books?"  
  
"Oh, yes sir," Nathan replied, speaking up for the first time.  
  
"Remember to keep them well hid."  
  
Nathan nodded.  
  
"When you fight with my father tomorrow, watch him close…he'll teach you more than you'll ever imagine." He watched as Nathan nodded again. "He may be an arrogant and mean, but he's a smart man who knows what he wants…learn from that."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"I'm leaving tonight, heading up north to join up with the abolitionists," he looked towards the big house, "figure I'll have more use there." He tried to hide the pain he was feeling behind his smile, but it was obvious he had to leave. He started to move away and then stopped, unsure of what to say, he tipped his head to Nathan and then continued on.  
  
Nathan watched him go. John had been the first white man to show him any kind of respect and in turn, Nathan respected him. He looked at the cut on his arm. Thankfully it had stopped bleeding, but his shirt was ripped and it wouldn't be easy to fix. However, considering the alternative, it wasn't so bad.  
  
******  
  
Nathan ran his fingers over the letters in the fabric book John had given him. He sounded out the letters carefully, as indicated by the object starting with the letter. Most were easy; A for apple, B for Book, and C for cat, but it was the Y for yam that had him confused for a bit. The picture did not look like a yam. And then there were the letter Q, that one confused him because it sounded like K. It really didn't matter though, and Nathan spent hours just sounding out the letters and writing them with his finger in the dirt when nobody was around.  
  
His goal was to be able to write his name, easier said than done. He came up with all kinds of creations, but he understood the beginning and the end. It was the middle that confused him. The thick book John had given him turned out to be much harder to read. Some of the words were long and took a lot of time to sound out, but he eventually managed. He didn't have the opportunity to learn from someone else, because there wasn't anyone else around that could teach him. Not his father, or any of the other slaves…he was alone in his teaching.  
  
Nathan could read, and nobody could take that away from him. He taught himself, learned the alphabet and how to write them. Though he didn't have any pens or paper to practice on he did have all the land in the world to apply his newly learned letters.  
  
******  
  
John had been right when he told Nathan that his father could teach him more than he could imagine, though it probably wasn't Master Jackson's intentions. Dueling with rapiers became part of Nathan's daily routine, first with the plantation owner, and later with his son. Manning still fought with his anger, allowing his temper to take control. Nathan, ever the patient soul, allowed the older boy to wear himself out. He always did. Master Jackson, however, was a much more skilled fighter, relying on his knowledge of the skill. He wasn't out to kill his opponent, but rather build up his own talent, and Nathan was the perfect partner.  
  
There were a few scars from the blades that came in contact with Nathan's skin, but they were minimal. Mostly the scars rested on his arms, and the indentations eventually puffed up and turned a shiny shade of russet before shrinking down and getting tight.  
  
Obadiah knew his son was risking his life everyday, fighting with men that would just as soon kill him, than treat him like a human being. However, he was seeing some changes in his boy. Changes that would make him stronger, and possibly one day get him killed. Nathan had never been a boy that liked to succumb to someone else's desire. Though he'd been taught to be submissive, it just wasn't in his nature. Obadiah knew that his son wouldn't always be so willing to obey the orders that were directed to him. One day, for one reason or another, those orders would stop.  
  
Nathan was filling out, becoming more of a man each and everyday. He had his mother's strength, and hopefully that strength would only be built over the years and not extinguished, like his mother's had been. There were great things destined for Nathan, Obadiah was sure of it. And he knew his son would do everything possible to find that destiny.  
  
Chapter 4  
  
The sound of dogs barking woke everyone from their beds. As the slaves left their houses they could see burning torches in the distance, moving like fireflies in the night. Master Jackson was after a runaway slave. They all knew it.  
  
Children huddled close to their mothers while the men looked on, hoping and praying for the one on the run. Whether the man escaped or got caught, the rest of them would suffer. As the flames of the torches got closer the men motioned for their families to move back inside.  
  
Master Jackson, Nick Ivey, and several others gathered in front of the houses. Ben Jackson, the man who'd tried to escape, was tied and had been forcefully brought back to the plantation. His feet were bare and bleeding and his shirt had been vehemently removed from his body.  
  
"Tie him to the whipping post!" Master Jackson ordered. He walked in front of his slaves, reminded them of a cat on the prowl. "You!" He pointed to Nathan, and several other young slaves. They were being forced to watch. Jackson ordered the rest of his slaves back into their houses.  
  
Manning stood back with an evil grin on his face. He knew what was coming, and he wanted these 'slaves' to know their place. "Doctor Mayfield from town said that it's a 'disease of the mind' that causes these niggers to want to run away," he said, looking at the men standing around. All of them agreed. "He also said that the only way to cure it to whip the devil out of them."  
  
"Heard that myself," Nick Dashal replied. "Though, if it were a cure you wouldn't need my services." He smiled behind a chuckle. Plantation owners from all over the county would hire him as a Professional Slave Breaker.  
  
Nathan watched and listened as these men talked amongst themselves as though he and those like him were inconsequential. Ben was now tied to the whipping post. Previous scars marred his back giving it a leathery appearance. He didn't fight the restraints, but rather stared straight ahead anticipating his punishment. Nathan looked at him in confusion and respect…Ben Jackson was so…strong. He'd been beaten before, many times before, and he still risked his life to be a free man. Why? Did he know the stories of the free black man were true? Was it worth risking his life to obtain?  
  
Yes.  
  
When Dashal brought the whip up, Nathan's back went tight, feeling as though it was his own body being assaulted. He knew in his heart and mind that the sounds of leather striking flesh would stick with him for the rest of his life. He watched as old scars were reopened and new ones were made. Ben never made a sound as his back was brutalized. Blood was flung like droplets of rain with each swing of the whip.  
  
The memory was tattooed in Nathan's mind, and nothing would free him of it. The lashing seemed to continue for lifetimes. Ben had long since passed out from the pain of it, but the lashes persisted. The slave hunters and Master Jackson's men continued to talk as though nothing was happening around them.  
  
Finally, like the end of a storm, the whipping stopped. Dashal then wrote out a bill and handed it to Master Jackson, who then paid seventy-five cents for services rendered. Ben was removed from the whipping post by two other slaves and then quickly taken to his house where he would spend the next few weeks recovering…if he didn't die. Master Jackson wouldn't tolerate a slave being ill for very long.  
  
The men moved forward, heading to the big house, talking about trivial things. To them this was simply a reason to get together, but to the slaves it was entirely something else. Nathan wiped his hand over his face and sighed, this wasn't the life that was meant for him.  
  
******  
  
Ben didn't survive the night. Whether it was the injuries inflicted upon his body or the desire to stop fighting, the slaves saw his death as another murder. Nathan hadn't known him personally. He'd worked in the backfields, and on a plantation with over 1000 acres of land and over 400 slaves it was difficult knowing who everyone was. But it still didn't make the pain of it any less.  
  
It wasn't until the working day finished that they were able to bury him. The master wouldn't permit time taken out of the day to bury a slave. No, he left that up to their own people. It wasn't until days or weeks later that a funeral celebration would occur. It wasn't the kind of funeral where people cried, wept, or grieved at. Instead, it was where a life was celebrated. This was where everyone who knew or knew of the deceased sang, drank, and danced the dead to heaven. They weren't celebrating death, but rather…freedom.  
  
******  
  
Nathan removed his shirt, as he got closer to the riverbank. He tried to ignore the healing wounds on his arms, future scars that would remind him of his past. It was late, and the light of the moon guided his way. He was here to take a swim, ease his mind of the pains and memories he felt.  
  
John had been the only white man who had showed him any kind of respect. He actually took the time and the chance to teach him a skill, and then gave Nathan the opportunity to learn to read. There was a whole new world in the books he'd received. Like John, there were more people out there who felt that slavery was unjust. There was a world within his reach, and he wanted to grab a hold of it.  
  
Nathan let the cool water rise up to his shoulders, and then let the weight of the world wash from his body.  
  
The older he got the more he learned about himself and the people around him. Nathan loved his father, loved him more than he could ever imagine, but he hated his father's submissiveness. Obadiah never spoke of his past with his son, he never told the stories of how he got the scars on his back, or the brand on his arm. Nathan had always wondered about them, but he knew better than to ask. There were certain things that a child knew not to ask a parent.  
  
The water seemed to glisten under the light of the moon. Each ripple seemed to have a life of its own, even as it disappeared into the water's edge. Nathan tried to compare the scars on his own arms to that of his father's, but he couldn't, simply because he didn't know how. At thirteen years of age he didn't understand the consequences of having ideas. He'd seen punishments inflicted on fellow slaves that had tried to escape, or slaves that had disobeyed an order. But weren't the punishments appropriate for doing what one felt as right?  
  
Trying to escape was worth the risk of capture…wasn't it? Men like Nick Dashal, a Professional Slave Breaker, who would hunt down runaway slaves and then punish them at the master's request. What did he know about being chained like a dog, or beaten until he couldn't stand? What did any of them know?  
  
******  
  
Emily Jackson was a fourteen-year-old slave girl who had been purchased during the first summer month. The master had purchased her for the simple reason of matching her with one of his field hands. Her wide hips and strong build told Master Jackson that she'd be able to have several children during her lifetime.  
  
She quickly found a strong friendship with Nathan. It was only at night that they could get together and talk, sometimes they went swimming, and other times they just watched for shooting stars. She wanted many of the same things Nathan did, and they talked about it openly. Emily was afraid of getting married, not wanting to bring a child into the world as it was. She, like so many like her, had been separated from her family, pulled away like a newborn calf from its mother. No, she wouldn't bring a child into the world of slavery. She wouldn't raise her sons to become 'field niggers' or her daughters to become 'house niggers'. However, if she didn't produce children her fate was uncertain. She could once again be sold…or even worse…forced into relations with white men. Barren slaves were useful that way; mulatto children weren't any better than the women that bore them.  
  
Nathan, a year younger than Emily, was quickly developing his first crush. She was so open compared to the others, and they had so much in common. Nathan had friends, boys his own age that he spoke with, but he didn't have anyone he could truly talk to. She was someone who wasn't afraid to be open about their desires…about freedom. If a slave were caught even speaking of the issue punishment would ensue.  
  
Master Jackson had chosen his 'best' slave, Mark, as Emily's husband. Nathan knew little of the man other than, other than he worked exclusively with the small herd of cattle. Mark was a legend in his own right when it came to dealing not only with the beef animals but the dairy as well. He'd been married once before, but his wife had died of cholera during an outbreak in the summer of '49. He would have been matched for a new wife sooner except Master Jackson was looking for the perfect wife.  
  
Emily had been fortunate enough to meet with Mark on several occasions. Emily's job was cooking with several other women for the slaves. Standing over a fire cooking corn meal wasn't as hard as working in the fields but it was just as tiresome.  
  
******  
  
Nathan looked at his father. They were two of the six slaves that were able to attend the wedding. Master Jackson stood off to the side, just to insure that everything went smoothly. The pastor, a pudgy little fellow with bright curly red hair, would marry anyone at any time…for the right price. He lived up to the old adage that 'God created whisky to keep the Irish from ruling the world'. Emily stood next to Mark, looking younger than she really was simply because the man she was marrying was so much older.  
  
"…until death or distance do you part," Pastor Hicks finished, and then he reached into his jacket pocket and took a long drink from his flask. He quickly placed his Bible in his coat pocket and walked over toward Master Jackson.  
  
Nathan looked at his friend and saw nothing other than loss. She wasn't happy to be a bride. Master Jackson's voice sounded off letting the slaves know to get back to work. Though the ceremony was short, at least they were able to have one. Mark headed towards the corrals where the cattle were at and Emily went back to work in the slave kitchen.  
  
Obadiah placed his hand on his son's shoulder and pushed him towards the barn. He knew the disappointment his son was feeling, having been there himself. Nathan would get over it, get over the pain of feeling like nothing more than a piece of livestock. One day he'd understand that his feeling were just that, feelings, something that he'd have to keep hidden. Obadiah wished it wasn't like that, but it was. They were slaves, not human beings who deserved the right to cry, mourn, or even fight back. He knew his son was a passionate soul who wouldn't learn that lesson quickly.  
  
"I have to finish with the stables," Nathan said, moving slowly away from his father's grasp.  
  
Obadiah nodded: "Be careful."  
  
Nathan rushed for the stables. He'd been given the job of keeping the horses groomed, fed, and the stalls well cleaned because it kept him close to the house. The master and his son didn't like to walk any further than they had to in order to find him so they could 'practice' their sword fighting.  
  
Working with the horses was in many ways a great deterrent from thinking only about the confines of his life. The gentle beasts, much like himself, were forced into daily labor with little to no rewards. They didn't ask for anything in return. Everyday it was the same thing, pulling plows, carriages, wagons, or long rides through the countryside. Objects like bits, whips, and spurs were used to make them obey. Unable to roam freely, they were confined to small stalls and only allowed outside when the master saw fit to let them out. Yes, so much like himself. He was treated like an animal simply because of the color of his skin.  
  
"Boy," one of the stable hands called to Nathan.  
  
Nathan looked up and greeted Silas, Master Jackson's head stable slave. Silas was a big man who could intimidate the Devil himself. However, there was a certain wisdom he always seemed to express without even trying. Older than most of the slaves on the plantation, he'd been married five times and watched as all his wives had been sold off or died. His children, fourteen in all, had been sold off to surrounding plantations like prized beef. Silas had forgotten more about being a slave than most would ever learn. Ripped from the arms of his mother when he was a child, and then brought to this country and sold into bondage.  
  
It wasn't until Master Jackson purchased Silas, that he found some stability. He knew more than anyone how harsh a master could be at times, having the scars on his body to prove it. He also knew that Master Jackson was relatively mild when it came to punishing his slaves. After all, someone had to have raised John to be the strong individual he was, and if children were a representation of the parents…there was some good in Master Jackson…somewhere. Silas had taught John about horses, and how to handle them. Silas knew before anyone that John wouldn't stay and take over the plantation. He didn't have what it took to own people. He didn't even have the strength needed to discipline a horse that got out of hand.  
  
"I need you to take Mrs. Jackson's little mare out and walk her for a bit," he ordered, moving toward the tack room. "She's colicky, and I don't want her goin' down in her stall."  
  
"Yes, sir," Nathan responded, heading off toward Candy's stall.  
  
"Nathan!" Silas yelled, stopping the boy in mid stride. "If Toby is out there fixin' fence…you stay clear of 'im. I don't want no trouble twixt you boys."  
  
Nathan nodded, and then headed back for the horse's stall.  
  
******  
  
Candy was a little gray mare that could hardly be called a horse. Her stature resembled more of a pony than that of a horse. She couldn't be compared to the massive, majestic, and wondrous horseflesh that the barn harbored, being that she was in a class all of her own.  
  
Nathan quickly haltered the little mare and led her out of her stall. Sweat had gathered along her neck and flanks and she tried incessantly to kick at her belly. Nathan couldn't help but feel sorry for the little mare. She'd always been so easy to handle and she never made a fuss when the master's wife wanted to go for a short ride. It was as if the two had been perfectly made for each other.  
  
Master Jackson didn't care for the little horse, saying that she wasn't of the standards that this plantation represented. However, Mrs. Jackson, never one to demand anything for herself…demanded that the little mare have a stall all to herself and have only the best of care. Mrs. Jackson won the short-lived argument.  
  
Nathan smiled, remembering back when Candy had first arrived. He saw Anna Mae Jackson sneak out of her house with a handful of sugar cubes, and he saw her feed the little mare the treats; hence the name, Candy. He didn't understand the depth of what Candy meant to the master's wife, how could he, he only knew that the little gray mare with kindest eyes belonged to the Mrs.  
  
Candy continued to kick at her belly, tossing her head in frustration. Not even the lush green grass beneath her hooves could entice her to eat. Nathan continued to lead her around in circles, not allowing her to lie down. He knew that her insides were plugged, probably from the hay she'd been eating as of late. He reached up and patted her head. She gently pushed into him, looking for some sort of comfort in her time of need. Nathan sighed, wishing he could do more.  
  
"Bring her here," Silas called from the gate of the corral.  
  
Nathan led Candy to where he was ordered and watched. Silas grabbed a long tube, and then forced it down the little mare's throat. She protested at first, but Nathan quickly twitched her nose and the tube slid down her throat easily. The bucket full of mineral oil caused the young boy to cringe. He didn't need to know a whole lot of anything to know what too much mineral oil could do. With practiced ease Silas poured the oil down Candy then quickly removed the tube.  
  
"Keep 'er walkin'. I'll be out in a bit to check on 'er." Silas grabbed his bucket and tube then headed back for the barn, leaving a confused Nathan in his wake.  
  
"How is she?" Asked a soft feminine voice.  
  
Nathan looked up and quickly looked back down when he realized it was the master's wife. He wasn't expecting the strong foreign accent she spoke with.  
  
"It's all right, child," she reassured. "I'm only inquiring about Candy." She reached through the fence and with a gloved hand gave the little mare a pat on the neck.  
  
"Yes, ma'am," Nathan responded shyly.  
  
"I heard my son, Manning, say she was sick…I was just wondering how bad she was?"  
  
"Silas says it's colic."  
  
"Is that bad?" Anna Mae asked softly, turning her attention back to her horse.  
  
"Can be."  
  
"She won't die will she?" The woman turned and looked hard at Nathan.  
  
"Don't rightly know ma'am," Nathan replied honestly.  
  
"Randolph doesn't like her, says she's a dreadful depiction of 'Plethora'." She sighed, and then continued, "But I think she's a diamond in the rough." She reached out and gently lifted Nathan's face to hers. "Like so many things." Anna Mae smiled, and then turned and headed slowly back towards the house.  
  
Nathan watched her go, feeling somewhat…confused by her words. Though her hands had been gloved she had actually touched him. He turned back to Candy and immediately started leading her around the corral.  
  
"Psssst," someone hissed between clutched teeth.  
  
Nathan brought his head up and looked around the corral for the sight of the sound. It was getting dark and hard to see. He smiled when he saw Emily rise up from the bushes. She looked around before crawling through the corral panels and then headed to where Nathan was standing. Her hair had been covered with a dark cloth and her usually loose clothing had been secured around her body.  
  
"What're you doin'?" Nathan asked, keeping his voice down.  
  
"There's a group of us…we're plannin' on runnin'…"  
  
"Tonight?"  
  
"No," Emily responded sharply. "A week from now." Her eyes expressed her hope of freedom. "Do you want to go?" She almost pleaded.  
  
Nathan looked around, not wanting anyone to over hear them. "Yes," he answered honestly. He did want to go, it was what he wanted more than anything in the world…freedom.  
  
Emily nodded, and with a grin adorning her face she quickly sped away. She didn't want to get caught before she had the chance to run away.  
  
Nathan watched her leave, a thousand things moving through his mind like a moving train. Where would he go? What would he do? Would he even make it? And then there was the question no slave wanted to ask themselves. What would happen if he got caught?  
  
Candy stopped suddenly, causing the young man leading her to tug on her lead. She grunted once, and then raised her tail. The mineral oil had worked, Nathan chuckled, not surprising considering how much Silas used. It wasn't long before Candy was munching lightly on the lush green grass at her hooves.  
  
"How's she doin'?" Silas asked, walking from the barn.  
  
"Better," Nathan replied with a smile, letting the mare continue to eat.  
  
"Let her eat all the grass she wants," he ordered, giving the horse a comforting pat on the rump. "Tomorrow mornin' when you come to feed the stock, bring her out here to eat grass instead…it'll keep 'er from colicin' again."  
  
"Yes sir," Nathan replied. He looked at the man that had, in many ways, earned the respect of several men, including whites. His ability with horses was well known, and what Nathan had just witnessed was only confirmation of Silas' unique talent.  
  
Chapter 5  
  
Planning an escape was bad enough, but actually going through with one could cost the participants their lives. If caught, punishments could include whippings, beatings, and many times being tied to a post for days on end. Like Ben, death was just something that happened. The only ones who mourned would be the family, not the master.  
  
Because Nathan was working in the stables and many times his time was spent sparing with the master and his son, he didn't get the opportunity to learn the escape route. The directions were passed through songs that were sung on the fields. Slaves didn't get the opportunity to meet and discuss things. They had to rely on their voices, and creativeness.  
  
******  
  
"…come with us…" Nathan urged, grabbing his father's arm. The escape was planned for tonight.  
  
Obadiah looked hard at his son, wanting to run with him, wanting so much to take that chance. But he couldn't. His boy was turning into a man, and he couldn't stop that from happening. Nathan was fourteen now, old enough to choose his path in life. "I can't," he said softly, regretting the very words.  
  
The words cut Nathan to the bone. The fact that he hadn't seen his sisters and hadn't had the opportunity to ask them to join him hurt bad enough, but his father refusing to go along with him…hurt. Nathan had lost his mother already; he didn't want to lose his father as well.  
  
"Please," Nathan begged, his brow was pinched and his eyes expressed the sorrow he was feeling.  
  
"I can't," Obadiah said, with more conviction.  
  
Nathan stood back and looked at his father. Obadiah would always be…a slave. Even if, by some miracle, the world changed and slaves were freed, he'd still have the mentality of a slave. Do what he was told, act like he was beaten, and expect poor treatment. Nathan knew his father had been born into slavery, and like so many of them, he'd never known the pure feeling of being free. Did he even want to be?  
  
"I'll come back for you," Nathan swore to his father, as well as himself. With nothing more than the clothing on his back the young man rushed from the small hut and towards the distant river.  
  
Obadiah watched his son rush away. He'd always known that his boy wouldn't willingly stay under someone else's control. His heart ached, feeling as though it weighed more than the world. A sudden pain had taken up residence there, causing his chest to feel tight. He didn't want to lose his son, he'd lost so much already, but this was Nathan's dream and Obadiah knew he wouldn't step in his son's way to achieve it.  
  
******  
  
Nathan rushed for the river. His bare feet struck the ground splattering mud and debris. Shoes would make too much noise. Branches scraped his arms and face as he ran by them, his only thought lay with getting to the river…getting free.  
  
There were only five of them, including Nathan and Emily. Emily's husband was not one of the ones escaping. Everyone looked to the light of the moon for their guidance. They intended to swim downstream and then separate, making it more difficult for the master to track them down. Though it was summer the water still bit at their skin causing Goosebumps. Mud slid between their toes and their clothing grew heavy with weight of the water.  
  
The tops of the trees on either side of the river seemed to glow under the light of the moon. Thankfully the night sky was clear and full of bright stars…it seemed so peaceful. The water's surface glittered and sparkled under the moon's rays, increasing with every ripple that was caused by the runaways' movements. It was only the subtle sound of water sloshing against the riverbank and frogs croaking in the distance that filled the air.  
  
As though time stood still: when they reached the spot in the river that forked, men with lanterns and dogs stood on either side of the riverbank. Just waiting. Nathan looked in shock at the sight, they'd been waiting for them, and like untrained sheep, they didn't even realize what was happening until it was too late.  
  
Shots filled the air causing everyone to stop. Ropes were then thrown into the water to pull the runaways out. Dogs barked frantically and horses nickered causing the air to echo their sounds. Nathan fought hard as a rope was lassoed around his neck. He grabbed at it, wanting to keep it from cutting off his air. Water covered his face and blurred his vision as he was forcefully pulled from the river. He could hear Emily's cries and screams in the distance, as well as everyone else's.  
  
Ropes were placed on Nathan's wrists after he was hauled from the water. Someone grabbed him and forced him to the ground next to the other slaves that had been captured. He tried to look for Emily but he couldn't see past all the commotion. Everything seemed to be happening so fast.  
  
"Get 'em up and back to the plantation," a deep voice ordered.  
  
Nathan felt the rope that was tied around his wrists tighten and he was forcefully pulled to his feet. The others were also pulled up, and like animals they were made to walk behind the horses. He didn't know why but a dreadful feeling filled his stomach. He knew what was coming for himself, but Emily…  
  
******  
  
Nick Dashal sat astride his large bay gelding, looking as though the job wasn't of any consequence to him. He spoke casually with another man who continuously stroked his long gray beard. Dashal held in his hand the long bullwhip he used to 'break' slaves. Though it didn't look to have been well used from a distance, Nathan guessed that he would be able to see and feel dried blood on the carefully braided leather.  
  
Lanterns burned from the plantation houses and slave quarters as they moved closer. Nathan's heart beat faster and harder in his chest. It was the look in his father's eyes that he dreaded more than anything. He would survive the lashing, the humiliation, but the fear his father would express frightened him.  
  
Master Jackson was waiting in front of the whipping posts. All of them were going to get used tonight. The slaves who hadn't run were standing out in front of their houses. Fear gripped their very souls.  
  
"Tie them!" Master Jackson yelled, causing everyone to jump.  
  
Everything seemed like a blur as Nathan was forced up against the post. His hands were then tied above his head, and he rested his cheek on the rough wood of the post. He didn't watch as the other slaves that were with him were tied in the same manner. Now, he understood the mindset Ben had been in before his whipping.  
  
There was no doubting that Nathan was scared. Every muscle in his body seemed to shake, muscles that he didn't even know he had cramped and shuddered uncontrollably. As his shirt was ripped violently from his back he could feel the warm summer wind caress his skin, like the velvety feel of a rabbit's fur. He couldn't hear the voices around him, the orders being shouted, or even the sound of tears being shed. The only thing Nathan could hear was the sound of his own heart beating frantically in his chest, and the quick breaths entering and exiting his mouth. The world seemed to spin, and even before the first lash struck Nathan succumbed to darkness.  
  
******  
  
A bone-shrieking cry echoed in the air after Dashal dumped a bucket of salt water on Nathan's back. He pressed his forehead to the ground and tried to take a deep breath. His fingers dug into the ground as the pain crawled like ants over his tormented skin.  
  
"May hurt, boy, but it'll keep you alive," Dashal said, watching as two slaves moved to either side of Nathan. They picked the boy up and carried him into the house he shared with his father then returned for the others.  
  
Master Jackson's slave, Mark, stood beside him, not looking pleased with himself, but slightly ashamed, he'd been the one to notify the master of the others' plan to escape. Emily had been caught, beaten, and raped. She lay on the ground looking at nothing…her spirit was crushed. Things had taken a terrible turn.  
  
One slave was dead, and the rest had to be carried back to their houses. Mark picked his wife up and carried her to their home. He tried to ignore the eyes on his back as he moved away, the eyes of slaves who saw him as a traitor, and the eyes of the whites that saw him as a 'reliable' nigger.  
  
******  
  
Obadiah placed a cold cloth on his son's butchered back. The wounds would eventually turn into dark leathery scars, horrible reminders of his failed attempt at freedom. Nathan continued to choke back sobs as the clothes were removed and then quickly replaced. His skin felt as though it were crawling off his body, and when moisture connected with dried salt it caused the muscles in his back to seize as each drop of the substance entered an open wound.  
  
"It's good that they dump the salt on yer back," Obadiah said, trying to comfort his son in anyway he could. "It'll help fight the illness that follows…you'll be back on yer feet in no time."  
  
"I can't live like this," Nathan wheezed, past clenched teeth.  
  
"This ain't the time for that, all's you got to do is get well," Obadiah reassured, not wanting his son to quit fighting.  
  
"I can't be nobody's nigger no more."  
  
"You listen to me, boy, and you listen good." Obadiah leaned over his son's back and whispered into his ear, "This ain't the time or the place for this kind'a talk. If you wanna be a free man, you gotta act when the time is better!" His words were strong, and penetrating.  
  
Nathan grasped his father's hand for support. One day, and not far from now…he would be free.  
  
Chapter 6  
  
1861  
  
The Civil War was in full force. The South's rights were being challenged and Southern men from all over were gathering together to fight against the Northern aggressor. If a fight was what they wanted the South intended to be ready…no matter the cost.  
  
Nathan looked up from the anvil, his large powerful frame covered in soot and sweat. He would intimidate even the bravest of men. He was twenty-one years old now, stronger than he was a few years ago, and much smarter. Because of his size and strength he'd been placed in the blacksmith shop. There he was learning about metals, shoeing horses, and repairing anything that was requested of him. It was here that he'd made his fist knife, a knife that was stuck inside his boot, a knife he was growing more skilled at handling, and eventually, that knife would help him escape. At night, when he was alone he could throw the finely crafted piece of metal and hit anything that he put his mind to. He'd even killed a few rabbits, which made for nice suppers, for his father and the other members of the 'house'.  
  
As a boy, Nathan had always been good with his hands. He was steady, patient, and sensitive compared to many others who lacked those finer qualities. His talent had earned him the ability to work outside of the fields. Even after his failed escape. The lashing had been a turning point in his life. It made him stronger, more determined, and more willing to take a life to achieve his freedom.  
  
Master Jackson's son Manning had left a year ago and was attending West Point, already choosing the direction his life would take. No one had heard from John in years, the only reason Nathan knew that was because of his relationship with Silas, who, in many ways was the eyes and ears of the plantation. The master's wife, Anna Mae, had become more of a recluse, locking herself in her room. She would only come out in the dead of night to visit Candy…or so it was said. Master Jackson never paid her any attention; his priority lay with the plantation and its future.  
  
Nathan struck the red-hot horseshoe, bending it into its proper shape. The heavy sounds of metal striking metal somehow reminded the young man of shackles being broken. Funny, how his mind would wander while working.  
  
He'd been planning another escape for months. This one would be successful. He kept everything to himself, never telling anyone. Every morning he woke up and walked to the shop for work, he would pass Emily. A heartrending reminder of a past he'd like to forget. She was nothing but a shadow of what she used to be. She simply spent her days sewing clothing made from 'Negro cloth', cloth that was woven in Northern spinning mills. Gone was Emily's desire for life, now, her four children, all boys, worked at her side. The ones that were old enough cleaned buckets, and the others aided their mother with the long pieces of fabric.  
  
Nathan hadn't spoken to Emily since that dreadful night so many years ago. He'd not been allowed, and she'd been unable. She hadn't uttered a word in over five years. Though it hadn't been Nathan's idea to try and escape that night, he still felt responsible. Emily wasn't the same person she once was, at twenty-one years of age she looked and acted like she was over a hundred.  
  
******  
  
Nathan looked at the night sky and with his hand grasping the knife he held he thought about his next move. The weapon was the only thing he had to protect himself, it was the only thing he had that he could call his own. Even his father belonged to someone else. With care, Nathan had wrapped the handle of the knife with the treated hide of one of the rabbits he'd killed. It made the weapon easier to hold and control. It wasn't beautiful by any standards…but it was effective.  
  
Obadiah looked at his son's back, knowing exactly what was going through his mind. Like a story proverb, Obadiah had always known his son would fight the restrictions of slavery. He'd fight with whatever he had. Nathan was leaving…it was just a matter of time. Like most parents, he worried. He worried about his son's fate. What if he didn't make it? What if he did? What would become of him? Would he ever see his son again?  
  
Slowly, Nathan removed his shoes and stood up on the warm ground. Winter was well on its way, and he knew he had to leave soon, or he wouldn't be able to make it at all. Dressed in only an old pair of pants, and a loose fitting shirt, he turned to look at his father. Words didn't need to be spoken. It was as though their minds connected for a brief moment and they knew exactly what each other were thinking. Perhaps the last moment they would ever see one another.  
  
"I have to," Nathan said softly, raising his eyes to meet his father's.  
  
"I always knew you would," Obadiah responded knowingly. He wasn't a fool.  
  
"Come with me," the pleading in Nathan's voice broke his father's heart.  
  
"I can't," he looked down at his rough callused hands, "I'll only slow you down."  
  
"I'll make it this time, daddy, I swear to God I will."  
  
Obadiah looked hard at his son. There was the determination he needed in order to survive. Something deep down inside told this father that his son would make it, he would survive, he would become a free man.  
  
"When you get free…" Obadiah held back, trying to cover the tears in his voice, "don't you dare come lookin' for me…or your sisters." It was an order, not a request.  
  
"I can't…"  
  
"They'll kill you for sure," Obadiah interrupted. "I'd rather go to my grave believing that you'd made it, than knowing you didn't." He shook his head. "You find a new life, and you make good on what fate has in store for you." A single tear fell from his dark brown eye. "If it's God's will…I'll see you again," a touch of pride laced his words. "I ain't never been proud of much in my life, ain't never had no reason to be…but you…"  
  
Nathan let the tears fall freely from his face, leaving their shinny trails on his cheeks and then landing harshly on his shirt collar.  
  
"You make me proud…I only hope, that one day…I'll do the same for you." Obadiah reached out and grasped hold of his son. He smiled when he felt his embrace returned.  
  
"I love you, daddy," Nathan said, behind his tears.  
  
Obadiah smiled: "I love you too, son," he said softly.  
  
Nathan stepped back, away from the house and took one last look around. This was it. He was leaving. He nodded his head in his father's direction, looking for that last look of approval, and then he rushed for the riverbank. He was leaving everything he'd ever known, exchanging one world for the next. This time, he was going to be a free man.  
  
******  
  
To a slave on the run, the worst sound in the world was that of a dog barking. A sound that most people took for granted, something to be expected, and many times ignored. But to a slave it meant being hunted, captured, or possibly killed. Trees became hideouts, sleeping areas, and many times an escape route. Running at night insured a longer distance of travel with less visibility to the hunter, and sleeping during the day insured some rest with more visibility for the hunted.  
  
Nathan didn't have a compass or a map, so he relied on the stars to tell him where he was headed, and the time of night it was. Though a full moon made it easier for him to see where he was going, it also made for being discovered that much easier. Thankfully, there weren't many. Nathan's knife became his life source. He hunted with it, killed with it, and many times fixed his own wounds with it. He relied on everything he'd ever learned…everything.  
  
Never eat anything a dog won't eat, and never drink water a horse won't drink. Silas had taught him that. To a slave on the run it was the only rule you didn't break. Being that it was fall, water wasn't as much of a challenge to find, however, food could be. Rabbits, birds, of any kind, and any small animal that could be easily killed with a small knife were what Nathan relied on for substance.  
  
******  
  
Snow covered the ground, something Nathan had never seen before. There was a glorious beauty about the winter months, but at the same time it brought with it a bitter cold. The leaves were gone off the trees and plants, and now it was just bare branches and dead twigs.  
  
Nathan had managed to make some footwear, with many of the hides of the animals he'd killed. He'd stolen a blanket that had been hanging on someone's clothesline. He stayed warm, as long as he was moving, but the nights were the worst. Without the sun to warm his back and seeing his breath crystallize in the air as he moved onward sent chills through his bones. Only his determination was driving him.  
  
When the distant smell of apples baking captured his attention, Nathan unconsciously started walking towards the aroma. His stomach grumbled in anticipation of eating something…anything. Winter had hidden many of the smaller animals, and it had been days since his last meal.  
  
A glow emanated from the cabin window. Only a single mule was standing idly in the corral just adjacent from the home. Not a sound came from anywhere, no dogs, owls, or coyotes. As Nathan got closer to the cabin the sweet smell of apple pie filled the air, his stomach growled louder in response.  
  
"Who's there?" Came a shout from the cabin door. An older woman with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a rifle pointed at Nathan, stood like an angel in the soft light coming though the doorway.  
  
Nathan jumped back not expecting the response. He hadn't thought he'd made that much noise. "I's just passin' through, ma'am," he said, not wanting to get shot.  
  
"Out here?" The woman chuckled, obviously knowing more than the stranger. "You's a long way from town, youngin'," she lowered her weapon slightly.  
  
"I'm real sorry to disturb ya." Nathan started to back away.  
  
"Ya hungry?" The question was sharp, but significant.  
  
"Yes," Nathan answered honestly.  
  
The woman lowered her weapon completely and headed back inside her home. She left the door open as she disappeared. "Shut the door behind ya, I ain't heatin' the outside."  
  
Nathan swallowed hard and took a hesitant step forward. Normally, he'd just leave, but his stomach was driving him. The stairs creaked when he stepped up onto the porch. The heat from within the cabin caused his skin to respond happily. And the anticipation of food hitting his belly brought another growl from within.  
  
"I don't want to be no bother," Nathan said, as he shut the door behind him.  
  
The old woman had a gun belt strapped to her hips and her gray hair had been pulled up onto her head.  
  
She didn't say anything as she filled a plate full of food. "Sit," she ordered, expecting to be obeyed.  
  
Nathan didn't waist any time responding. He'd been trained that way. Graciously, Nathan took the plate of food and then looked up into the face of the woman who was serving him. She was blind. Her once brown eyes had fogged over. A long scar ran from the center of her forehead to the middle of her right cheek.  
  
"How'd you know I was outside?" Nathan asked quietly. He waited until she was seated at the table before he picked up his fork and started eating. There were a few things his mother had taught him as a child that he still remembered.  
  
"I heard you commin'," she responded flatly. "Where ya headed?" She asked, not holding anything back.  
  
"North."  
  
"How long ya been on the run?" She leaned back in her seat and stared at Nathan, just as though she could see…right through him.  
  
Nathan swallowed: "Six weeks." Perhaps she was a witch of some kind. He'd seen many rituals and knew of the beliefs that many of his fellow slaves had preformed. He'd never believed in any of it though.  
  
"Don't get your britches in a bundle," she chuckled, knowing what he was thinking. "You ain't the first runaway that's ever passed through this way and you sure ain't goin' to be the last." She took a long sip of coffee. "You know where you're at?" She crossed her arms over her chest and waited for a response.  
  
Nathan didn't answer, because he didn't know where he was.  
  
"You're 'bout 15 miles east of the Kansas Territory." She smiled warmly.  
  
Nathan looked at his plate of food and then back up into the face of this stranger.  
  
"In other words, you're almost free…" The woman stood up and moved around the table. Every step she took, every movement she made was from memory. She knew every move Nathan made simply by the sounds he made. "There's a place out in the barn that you can sleep in…there're blankets, some clothing, and some better shoes ya can pick through. Make sure you're ready to go by mornin', then I'll take ya to the border."  
  
"Ain't no need ma'am…" Nathan didn't want to cause her trouble; the food she'd given him was already too much.  
  
"Gabby an' I have taken that trail a hundred times over, an' I reckon one more ain't goin' to hurt none."  
  
The determination in the woman's voice was enough to hush anymore protest from Nathan. He finished his plate of food and then stood up slowly. Unsure of his next move, it was as though the older woman knew just what he was thinking. She opened the door and pointed in the direction of the barn. Nathan nodded and quickly made his way toward the place he was going to spend the night.  
  
******  
  
The wagon bounced roughly over the frozen snow covered ground. Every bump seemed to jar the bones in Nathan's back. He hadn't been sure about allowing this woman, who still refused to give her name, to help him. For all he knew she could turn him into the authorities, but there was something about her that he instantly trusted. She'd shown him nothing but kindness, and she seemed to know exactly what he was feeling.  
  
She'd packed him a small bag full of bread and dried meat. The snow on the ground would supply enough water until he reached a safe destination. Thankfully, the barn had been full of clothing, probably from those who had gone before him. His feet were now warm and snuggled comfortably inside a heavy pair of boots. Nathan smiled he was almost free.  
  
The wagon came to a slow stop and Nathan lifted the canvas that had been covering him. Nobody was around. The snow was a bit deeper here, and the trees more dense, but it looked very similar to Missouri.  
  
"Keep to this trail and it'll take you to a small town called Sawmill, there're some folks there that'll help ya."  
  
Nathan crawled out of the back of the wagon and looked up at the older woman. "Can I get your name, just so I can thank ya proper like, when I get the chance?"  
  
"It's better I don't," the woman said, with a soft smile. "You best get…" she slapped the reins on Gabby's back, "while you've got some light."  
  
Nathan stood back as the woman disappeared into the distance. Gabby took the path as though it had been branded into her mind. The old mule walked slowly home. Nathan looked out past the tree line and realized that even though the trail had been covered in snow it was still visible.  
  
For the first time in his life he was free. Now, it was just a matter of changing the way he saw himself…he wasn't a slave anymore.  
  
Chapter 7  
  
Sawmill consisted of three standing structures and a field full of tents. The sound of an out of tune piano exited the saloon. Only one horse was tied out front with his hind leg cocked in the resting position. Smoke billowed out of the buildings and a few of the tents. Nathan wanted to feel the comfort of warm air on his skin. Alabama could get cold in the winters, but never like this.  
  
Nathan stayed back, not wanting to draw the wrong kind of attention. When he saw a tent flap open and a black man exit, Nathan took a deep breath. He wasn't the only one. He could hear voices coming from within the large tent, men's voices, some were heavy and raised and others were soft and monotone. The smell of beer filled the air, and Nathan, thinking only of getting warm, opened the tent flap and entered.  
  
"There ain't no way the Union Army's goin' to let one of us fight!" The big man with a buffalo hide on his back practically yelled.  
  
"I done heard that the white folks from 'round here ain't goin' to fight in a war to free slaves…"  
  
"That's what the government wants 'em to believe," another voice sounded from somewhere in the tent. "This is a war on keepin' the 'Union together'."  
  
"There're too many of us to ignore!" A skinny little fellow stood up on one of the makeshift tables and announced. "We can fight!" He raised his fist in the air. "I got as much right as the next man, and I'm a free man."  
  
"We're all 'free men', Leroy…one way or another." A grin appeared on the man's face. He reached up and scratched his heavy beard and took another drink of his beer.  
  
"All's we got to do is go back into Missouri and enlist…"  
  
"And risk gettin' caught!"  
  
Nathan snuck over by the stove listening to the argument. The heat of the oven felt good on his cold skin. He'd never been anyplace with so many 'free' slaves before. In many ways he was feeling…awestruck.  
  
"We'll have the Union Army to protect us!" Another man yelled from across the room.  
  
"'fore or after they whip us?"  
  
A younger man, with strong handsome features stood up and cleared his throat. He'd been quiet since Nathan had entered the room, but somehow he managed to grab everyone's attention. "I just come from Tennessee, and they're enlistin' colored men for the Union Army. Leroy's right, there're too many of us to ignore, so they're lettin' us in."  
  
The room went quiet.  
  
"They gonna treat us like them white boys?"  
  
The young man ignored the question. "This is the chance we've been waitin' for…for a long time." He looked around the room, making sure he made eye contact with everyone. "This is our chance to fight for 'our' homes, and 'our' future," he said with true conviction. "This war could end slavery, our chained brothers and sisters in the South could be free in no time at'all."  
  
"What about slave hunters?" Nathan asked softly.  
  
"The South's too occupied with the war to come chasin' after runaways," the young man answered. "We'll all wear blue uniforms, and that means we work for the United States of America…not some plantation owner who'll whip us every chance he gets."  
  
"So the government will own us!"  
  
"Nobody's going to own us," he sighed in frustration before continuing, "This is our choice, 'ours'."  
  
"So how we gonna get there?" Another man asked, looking curiously around the room.  
  
"If Tennessee is part of the Confederacy, how are we gonna get in there to enlist for the Union?"  
  
"There are Union camps all over the South," the young man answered quickly, then changed the subject to answer the first question, "There's a wagon train of us headin' to Tennessee first thing in the mornin'."  
  
As though the room was of one mind, everyone sighed. It was a challenge, deciding what to do. Nathan wasn't sure of his next step either. He'd just left the South, and to turn around and head back wasn't something he was sure he could do. But this wasn't just about him. This was about every slave who still remained under someone else's control. This was his chance, and perhaps his only one, to help his mother, sisters, and father.  
  
"I'll go," Nathan said, stepping forward.  
  
The younger man turned and smiled. It wasn't surprising to see more men step forward, some as young as seventeen and others as old as fifty. Sometimes it just took one.  
  
"Tomorrow morning," the energy level in the man's voice was obvious.  
  
******  
  
Thirty-five former slaves gathered out in front of the same tent they had met in the night before. They were ready to take the next step in their lives. War. It was a step larger than many might have anticipated, but wherever the path held for them they knew they would be able to handle. They'd already been through more than most.  
  
A few men rode horses, some sat in one of the three wagons, and the rest walked. The fear of getting captured still hung within many of them, only because the feeling was difficult to relinquish. However, the willingness to fight and the anticipation of fighting something that had held them confined for so long drove their very beings.  
  
Nathan walked steadily next to the wagon that was pulled by the team of mules. He discovered that the younger man who had gotten everyone's attention the night before was called Boomer. He refused to be called by the name given to him by his former master, like many of the slaves joining up with the Union. Nathan decided to keep his name, unwilling to lose it. His mother had given him the name 'Nathan', and that was the only thing he had that she'd given him.  
  
There were only two men out of the thirty-five that owned a rifle, and only one of them could shoot very well. However, with their determination and strength of character they quickly taught many others the skill that would keep them alive, one day. Nathan wasn't any different. His skill throwing a knife was enough to start teaching many of the others.  
  
Weapons were made, not purchased. Nobody had enough cash to just buy what was needed, but these men had fought long and hard for the simplest necessities in life and the making of weapons weren't any different.  
  
******  
  
"NATHAN!" Boomer called, riding up on his appaloosa gelding. He pulled on the reins slowing his horse to a slow walk then slid to the ground, keeping in pace with the train of people.  
  
Nathan looked up, but continued on his way. Questions rushed through his mind like water rushing through a crack in a dam.  
  
"Your skill with a knife is…impressive. How'd you learn?" He walked beside the former slave, having been one himself up until six months ago.  
  
"I taught myself," Nathan replied softly.  
  
"You ain't the only one…" Boomer started to say, but stopped himself.  
  
Nathan looked up, unsure of what this man was trying to speak.  
  
Boomer cleared his throat, feeling suddenly unsure of himself. "I heard from one of the others that you'd just crossed the border…before joinin' up with us?"  
  
"Yes, sir, I did." Nathan nodded.  
  
"You still got family down South?"  
  
Again, Nathan nodded.  
  
Boomer reached out and grabbed Nathan's arm, pulling him to a stop. "Livin' in the North ain't been that much different than livin' in the South. Just because we ain't owned don't mean it's easier. The people here don't want us hangin' around, taken their jobs, and buyin' up land. We ain't wanted…but this war is goin' to change things. This is the first time, in our lives, that we've gotten the chance to choose our future." He paused and looked at the men walking toward their futures, by their own choice. "I just want to thank you for comin' is all…I know it ain't easy leavin' the South…only to return, but I swear to you," he looked hard into Nathan's eyes, "it'll be worth it."  
  
"I wouldn't be here if'n I didn't think it was," Nathan responded confidently. Something stirred inside him. He knew now, that things were going to change, he didn't know how, but he knew they would. He wasn't a slave anymore, Master Jackson wasn't telling him what to do or where to go. Manning wasn't teasing him, making him feel less than an animal. He could now discover what life had in store for him, and unlike many of the men walking and riding beside him, he wouldn't know what it felt like to be shunned in the North. Not yet anyway. And things would change after the war…if they won.  
  
Chapter 8  
  
Nathan looked down at himself. The blue uniform didn't feel like anything he'd ever worn before. This wasn't Negro Cloth. This was wool and cotton, cotton from the fields he used to work in. His black shoes shined underneath the light blue pants he wore. He had his own rifle…his own rifle. That in itself brought a smile to his face. He was a part of the United States Colored Troops, 44th Infantry of the Tennessee. For the first time in his life he belonged to something by choice, and it was something special.  
  
******  
  
Boomer and Nathan became close friends. They shared a tent, and for the most part kept in each other's company. It didn't take long for either man to realize that the training for their division was taking longer than anyone would have anticipated. In other words, they weren't fighting. Perhaps it was because they weren't ready, but everyone felt as though it was because they were considered a less than capable body of men. They were all black, and therefore unable to fight like the whites could. Or so they thought.  
  
******  
  
It wasn't until 1863 that Nathan and his regiment saw their first battle. Men fell like rain from the sky, but these soldiers were brave. Many continued to fight while their bodies bled, and those that couldn't, prayed for the fate of those that could. It didn't matter what color of skin any of these men had, they were all fighting for the same thing…deep down, they all knew it.  
  
Nathan had always had a soft heart, and for a man who had been treated as terribly as he had there should have been some hardness. However much he wanted to ignore the cries of pain from his fellow comrades, he couldn't. He continued to fight, firing his weapon against the men he'd run so far from. When a bullet struck his hip he quickly went down. An unbearable sensation caused his right leg to go numb. Blood seeped through his pants and Nathan placed his hand over the wound then found his fingers slick with the red substance. The pain wasn't anything like the lashings he'd received while being held a slave, but it still caused his heart to race and fear to enter his mind.  
  
"Nathan!" Boomer called, sliding down next to his friend.  
  
The wounded soldier looked up and shook his head. His first battle and he was already wounded. Though, just by looking around the fields, that he wasn't the only one. The smoke from gunpowder had made the air thick and difficult to see their location. Boomer managed to get Nathan to his feet and they both headed in, what they hoped, was the safest direction. Men and boys cried and wept over their fallen friends, while others lay dying in a field that wouldn't remember their names.  
  
It wasn't supposed to happen this way.  
  
Men that both Boomer and Nathan had trained with were dying, dead, or still fighting for a cause they fully believed in. Boomer hissed in pain when his wounded friend accidentally hit the long gash on his arm. A bullet had grazed him as well.  
  
"Ya hurt bad?" Nathan asked through clenched teeth.  
  
"I'll live," Boomer replied with a grin. He wasn't going to let a scratch keep him down.  
  
Nathan hissed when sweat met his open wound. A different time flooded back to his mind, and the feeling of salt water landing like spikes on his wounded back. Strange how different things could be, and yet, still be so similar.  
  
When they reached the hospital tent, Nathan and Boomer had to wait while the more seriously wounded were seen too. One doctor, that's all there was to treat the hundreds of wounded black soldiers. Nathan turned his attention to Boomer who had placed his handkerchief on the long deep gash on Nathan's hip. The pain had dulled some, but it did keep him still and lying on his left side.  
  
"I'm goin' to go check an' see if I can be of any help…you gonna be all right?" Boomer asked, getting to his feet.  
  
"I reckon," Nathan responded, feeling somewhat comfortable under the large tree. At least he was in the shade.  
  
Boomer reached down and patted his friend's shoulder and then headed back towards the field where all the fighting had occurred. The sounds of cannons roaring had lessened somewhat, and the sounds of bullets whistling through the air had become less frequent, but there were still soldiers out in the fields that need help.  
  
Nathan looked at the sorry souls around him. At least he was attentive enough to know what was going on around him. Many of those lying in the dirt, blankets, and flimsy cots didn't. The tent flaps had become red from spilt blood. Only the top didn't seem stained with the passionate color. Men cried as their limbs were amputated and Nathan's heart wrenched with the sounds that would brand their way into his memories. He squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to close out the scene before him, but his mind wouldn't let him.  
  
It wasn't until after dark that Nathan finally succumbed to the pain, blood loss, and simple exhaustion.  
  
Boomer never returned.  
  
******  
  
There are certain smells that the human body knows, smells that bring back memories, both good and bad. When Nathan awoke on a small cot outside the tent he'd been waiting to enter the day before, his nostrils filled with the smells of his time as a slave. Death, decay, and illness they were all odors that he would be more than willing to relinquish.  
  
The air had cleared of the smoky fog that had incased them just one-day prior, and the warmth of the sun greeted Nathan like a new friend. However, that wasn't the case for many of the dead and dying around him. Nathan tried to sit up but the bandages and the pain emanating from his hip prevented it, and like a photograph the images of yesterday filled his mind. He couldn't hear the sounds of battle in the distance, nor could he hear the cries of men like he had. Things had settled somewhat, and unfortunately taken a dark turn.  
  
Soldiers that hadn't been killed or wounded were now on their way to another battle. Those that had been chosen to stay behind were, now burying the brave men that had perished. The wounded, the wounded were left under trees, seen to by untrained nurses, and an extremely tired doctor.  
  
"How ya feelin' youngin'?" A nurse asked. She was small and seemingly frail but there was a determination written in her face that made Nathan look up with respect.  
  
"Better, ma'am," he replied softly.  
  
The woman smiled and nodded her head. Her black hair had been tightly braided and rested like cornrows on her scalp. Her fingers were worn and well used, but soft and graceful all at the same time. She lifted the blanket off of Nathan's hip and carefully inspected the bandage.  
  
"What's yer name?" She asked, sitting down next to her patient.  
  
"Nathan…Nathan Jackson, ma'am."  
  
"How long ago'd ya run?" She hadn't been blind to the scars on his back.  
  
"Right 'fore the war," he responded proudly.  
  
Again, the woman smiled. "Ya like bein' a free man?" She reached out and squeezed his arm.  
  
Nathan paused: "Yes, ma'am, I do," he responded honestly.  
  
"Then make yer choices carefully chil', an' don' let nobody push ya wrong."  
  
Nathan looked up, feeling as though he was in the presence of a legend. He nodded and smiled when she gently patted his shoulder. Though he didn't understand the importance of her words, he did understand there meaning. His life wasn't meant to be taken lightly, his choices were just that, his, and nobody could take that away from him…unless he let them.  
  
He watched as the little woman made her way to another patient and he watched her graceful movements. She was so small and yet, so strong. As though she'd had to fight for everything her whole life, and not just for herself. The men she touched took one step closer to knowing just how important she was, and how much a single touch could inspire someone to try harder.  
  
Nathan realized that, like him, she had been a slave. But, unlike so many, she let her past direct her future learning from it and showing others that life could be good, as long as you had something to offer not just yourself, but those around you as well. If someone as small and delicate as she was could make that much of a difference to so many lives, then anyone else could as well. He took another look at her and realized he never got her name, but then again, he didn't need one.  
  
******  
  
Nathan reached down and helped the older soldier sit up. He'd woken everyone around him after having a terrible coughing spell. Because Nathan was the closest and most able he managed to get out of his cot and help his comrade. The doctor and nurses were busy with other patients and unable to help this one.  
  
The wound on Nathan's hip protested at his movements, but thankfully they stayed closed having healed enough. Carefully, he positioned the pillows on his comrade's cot to fulfill his needs more appropriately and then he gently laid the man back down.  
  
"That better?" He asked softly, not wanting to disturb the others.  
  
"Yes, sir," came the choked response.  
  
Nathan smiled down and then stood up and took a long look around. He could do this. Using his balance and stiff leg he went to the next bed and checked on its patient. Maybe he couldn't become a doctor, but he could help. He wasn't dumb, he'd taught himself how to read, and his arithmetic was better than most.  
  
"Boy!" The doctor called, walking over to where Nathan was sitting on the edge of a cot, helping the older soldier drink some broth.  
  
Nathan stood up a little too quickly and then leaned over placing his hand on his hip. The wound was reminding him that it still existed.  
  
"What are you doing?" The doctor asked harshly.  
  
"He was havin' trouble…"  
  
"And you decided to help," the doctor finished for him, obviously not pleased.  
  
"I can help, sir, and my name's Nathan," he said with more confidence than he thought he had at the moment.  
  
The doctor crossed his arms over his chest and looked the young man over. "Can you read?" He asked, with conviction in his voice.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You're not lying?"  
  
"No, sir." Nathan stood up straighter.  
  
The doctor nodded his head and looked Nathan over once more. Obviously the young man was willing to help, and at this point in time the doctor couldn't be picky when it came to getting any.  
  
"My name's Doctor Phillips and I'm with the Medical Regiment of Volunteers. If you can prove to me you'll be of help…I'll teach you some doctoring skills."  
  
This brought a smile to Nathan's face.  
  
"Are you willing to learn?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Until that leg gets healed up some, you can help me in the medical tent and after that…we'll figure something out." The doctor turned and headed to where he was needed, leaving a stunned Nathan in his wake.  
  
******  
  
As a child Nathan never saw himself as anything except a slave. Though he dreamed about doing great things with his life he never could comprehend that it might one day come true. He was a slave, not someone of position or standing. He had always enjoyed working with the animals. Silas had taught him about treating their illnesses and later he learned how to care for injured legs and proper shoeing while he worked in the blacksmiths shop. The skill had always been there, and now was his chance to discover how true to that skill he might become.  
  
Never did he realize working with his knives would eventually save his life and those of the men around him. The only difference between the blade of his knife and the blade of the scalpel was the size. He tried to learn everything he could. Watching, reading, and then performing, he was taking his life in a new direction, and it was a direction that was truly taking him…home.  
  
Chapter 9  
  
While battles raged on they would eventually cease, with a victor and a loser. However, battles in the medical fields continued to rage, long after the last bullet was fired. The majority of soldiers in the hospitals were suffering from illnesses, boys that had been raised on farms and hadn't been exposed to childhood diseases were now suffering from them. The others were facing long hours of slow recovery from wounds inflicted in the battlefield.  
  
Nathan enjoyed what he was doing. Being a stretcher-bearer had given him the opportunity to be the first at the side of anyone who was wounded. He was there before the doctors could be. Even though Doctor Phillips had taught him a lot about medicine and treatments, he learned more about it after being on the field applying field dressings of his own. It was there that he learned to treat people as individuals, and not as objects with wounds. Everybody was different, every need, fear, and wound, nobody could be treated the same because nobody would heal the same.  
  
There were several treatments that Nathan had a difficult time understanding. Many of which caused the patients more pain. Poisons were given to induce sweating and saliva. Boys that were already suffering were made to suffer more. It wasn't until he witnessed a leg being amputated that sickened him. Surgical shock wasn't the answer for anesthesia. Granted things like chloroform and ether were difficult to locate and many times impossible, but less than half of the patients who succumbed to the amputation of a limb without anesthesia survived. Wouldn't it be better to treat the wound rather than the symptom?  
  
But then again, how could one doctor treat them all. There were so many who needed medical help.  
  
As a slave, a healer was someone with special powers. Usually that person was held above everyone else, simply because everyone relied on them when illness or wounds were in need of treatment. Doctors didn't frequent slave quarters or treat them, therefore it was the healer that they looked to. Herbs, roots, and water were the only medicines that a healer had to work with, and many times they worked, however, sometimes they didn't.  
  
******  
  
At the end of the day on May 6th 1864, the Wilderness was filled with wounded soldiers dressed in blue and gray. The fires that raged through the thickets had consumed many, and others waited helplessly for aid. This battle had been different than all the ones before it. This time, the South was on the run.  
  
Nathan looked at the devastation around him. He knew in his heart that 'this' was worth the cost they were paying. Wasn't it? He continued to move through the bodies looking for life. Both Southern and Northern men lay side by side, many dying, others dead. Nathan couldn't separate the enemies from the friends when he looked at their faces. They all looked alike.  
  
The sound of raspy breathing captured Nathan's attention and he quickly turned trying to locate the source. A man, just a few years older than himself, sat leaning against a tree. His right arm was missing and blood marred his once blue uniform. The beard on his face hid his soft features, but when he opened his eyes Nathan knew exactly who he was.  
  
"John," Nathan gasped, rushing toward his former master's son.  
  
The wounded man forced a smile onto his face. Blood had stained his teeth, dirt and soot marked his light skin. He was dying. "Yo…you…your alive," he wanted to continue but his breathing wouldn't allow it.  
  
"Ya done taught me well," Nathan replied, taking John's left hand and he gently squeezed.  
  
"Fa..father…how is he?" He asked, rushing through his words.  
  
Nathan didn't know, but he wasn't sure if lying was the best answer.  
  
"John?" A heavily accented Southern voice asked.  
  
Nathan turned his attention from the man dying in his arms to the one standing before him. Manning. He stood there, in shock. His gray uniform was tattered and stained, but the insignia let Nathan know that Master Jackson's youngest son had done very well in the military academy.  
  
Tears sprang from John's eyes as he looked up into his brother's face. Both boys were older, more mature, and much wiser. Manning knelt down next to his brother and took Nathan's place. Their political views, beliefs, and old troubles were placed on the back burner. Now, they didn't matter.  
  
Nathan saw for the first time how strong bonds could be between families, despite being enemies on the battlefield. This wasn't like anything he'd seen before. He'd never been so angry with his sister or father, disappointed yes, but not angry enough to fight them. Not angry enough to want to hurt them. He was seeing the boy who had prided himself on winning his father's approval, weeping over the dying body of his brother. The brother he had tried so hard to belittle and out shine.  
  
John had just looked up into his brother's face and for the first time in a very long time felt as though everything was okay. His breathing became more labored and his breaths shorter, until they finally stopped all together. A sense of peace seemed to come over him and Manning pulled his brother into his chest and wept unashamedly.  
  
Nathan stood back, feeling as though he was intruding on a moment. He hadn't realized he'd shed his own tears. A part of his past was…gone. Jonathan Jackson, the first white man Nathan had ever learned to respect, and the man who had given him the opportunity to read was dead.  
  
"Did he say something to you?" Manning asked, wiping his brother's hair away from his face.  
  
"Asked 'bout your pa…an' you," Nathan responded softly.  
  
Manning nodded, and then reached into his brother's jacket and removed his wallet. "Make sure his grave gets marked?" It wasn't an order, but rather, a pleading question.  
  
"I'll see to it."  
  
Again, Manning nodded. Slowly, he stood up and roughly wiped his eyes free of the tears he'd shed. He was an officer, and needed to act like one. He didn't say anything as he headed away, unable to take his brother with him, regretfully so. Nathan looked down at the man who had given him his first feeling of independence. For him to die in such a way was unjust, but unlike so many others, he died knowing he had his brother's love. That was most important.  
  
******  
  
Blood was a color, unlike scarlet, crimson, or red it was a color that didn't match with anything. It seemed to have a life of its own, much like the fire that consumed the branches and logs in front of Nathan's tent. He looked down at his hands and thought about the lives he'd touched, and the lives that had touched him. His hands could only do so much, and though he yearned for more knowledge about healing, he was afraid it wouldn't be enough. It would never be enough. Life was so fragile, and so easily taken away.  
  
Nathan looked down at his boots that were stained with blood, blood that he could never wash out. Even his uniform was stained with the unbecoming shade. There was a certain smell associated with the bright color, and it was a smell Nathan had partaken of a lot lately.  
  
Life had a funny way of taking its own turns. Sometimes it was bumpy and other times it was smooth, Nathan wished it had been smoother these last few years. The people he'd met had gone on to do their own things, many had perished, giving their lives for what they believed, and others had been fortunate enough to see another day.  
  
Nathan wondered about his father, his sisters, and his mother. Were they free now, or still held in bondage? Did his sisters ever get married, and have children of their own? Did his mother remarry? Did his father? Were they in good health? Were they happy? So much had changed over the years, so much indeed. President Lincoln had passed the Emancipation Proclamation, the war had entered its fourth year, and more men were dying everyday than were enlisting.  
  
The stars twinkled in the winter sky, looking as though they didn't have a care in the world. Even the moon seemed content, being up there all alone. Nathan could hear singing in the distance and he smiled, no matter how bad life seemed to be…there was always something to celebrate.  
  
Chapter 10  
  
Nathan finished wrapping a soldier's wounded arm, while many others waited patiently for their turn. Many of these soldiers were heading home, some were relieved and others were disappointed. Nathan wasn't sure why. They had all fought long and hard, trying to build a country, trying to build a better life for their families.  
  
Everyone looked up from their positions when they heard someone yelling through the maze of people. The words were inaudible, but for some reason everyone stopped what they were doing and looked toward the sound. As the voice got closer the words became clearer. The war was over.  
  
"THE WAR IS OVER!" The man yelled, again and again. "THE WAR IS OVER!"  
  
Nathan's knees gave way and he fell to the ground landing on his backside. A feeling of pure relief flooded his system. The war was over. He looked to the young man lying on the cot next to him and saw tears spring from his eyes like a much-needed rain. The war was over.  
  
******  
  
Music filled the air and men danced around the camp as though they didn't have a care in the world. Nathan was one of them. They sang, played their spoons, banjos, and fiddles, letting everyone and everything know of the Union's victory over the South. No more battles would be fought, hospitals wouldn't be filled with wounded, and men could go…home.  
  
This had been a war unlike any others. Nathan knew it; he knew that things would change now. There was a real chance for things to be different. Unlike the white men, who had fought to protect their homes, the black man had fought to build one.  
  
They were free!  
  
Men who had escaped the bonds of slavery were now able to go anywhere they pleased. Do anything they wanted. Live anyway they saw fit to. And those still in the South, were now able to leave without fear of punishment. Nobody would be whipping them, chaining them like dogs, or working them like animals. For better or for worse, they were the owners of their own bodies, and they would make the decisions for themselves.  
  
"Where are ya goin' now?" Isaac Hays asked, stepping up beside Nathan. They had worked together for a few weeks and had gotten to know each other quite well.  
  
Nathan chuckled: "Don't know," he answered with a smile, but he could choose.  
  
"I heard that Oregon is mighty fine country," Isaac said with a smile, "figure I might try gettin' me some land there'bouts."  
  
"Farmin'?"  
  
Isaac looked down at his hands and nodded. "Worked lots 'o land in Mississippi, figure this time it'll be mine." He looked out toward the crowd of people, trying to hide the tears that wanted to fall. "My own land," he sighed, the words were…unbelievable.  
  
Nathan nodded in understanding.  
  
"You got family?" Isaac asked, trying to relieve the moment.  
  
"Yeah," Nathan replied softly.  
  
"You gonna go lookin' for 'em?"  
  
Nathan paused a moment, he wanted to, but he knew he couldn't. Men like Master Jackson wouldn't like to see his runaway slaves returning to claim their family members, who would most likely be gone anyway. Just because they were free men didn't mean they wouldn't suffer at the hands of their enemies. This is what his father had meant when he told him to not come back looking for them.  
  
"No," Nathan responded sadly.  
  
Isaac nodded: "My daddy got sold when I's just a boy, an' my momma…she died a few years back. But my daddy tol' me, right 'fore they took 'im that he'd always be wit' me an' that one day I'd have my own family."  
  
"I reckon he was right."  
  
"He's a smart man." He smiled remembering back. "Figure that's what'll make us strong…defendin' family we done never knew we could 'ave."  
  
Nathan looked at Isaac for a long moment. Perhaps that was true. He knew that finding his father or sisters would be impossible, and at times like these Nathan wished he had his father's strength in God.  
  
"Good luck in Oregon," Nathan said.  
  
"Reckon I'll be needin' it," he replied with a chuckle. Isaac reached up and slapped Nathan's arm before heading back into the crowd.  
  
Nathan watched him go, feeling somewhat envious that he already knew what he was going to do with the rest of his life. Nathan knew, he just didn't know how to go about it. He loved people, all kinds of people, even the ones that didn't like him. He found each person compellingly different and he wanted to lean why. He wanted to help people, treat them in ways he'd never been treated because of his color. He wanted people to learn that he was as much a man as anyone, with the same desires and hopes.  
  
He wanted to heal.  
  
Nathan knew that becoming a real doctor was out of the question, but that wouldn't stop him from helping those who couldn't get treatment from anywhere else. He had learned a lot on the battlefield, and there was only more to learn. The world was his teacher and he intended to listen.  
  
******  
  
With the money he'd earned from serving in the Union Army, Nathan was able to purchase himself a horse and some equipment. The livery owner, though not overly thrilled with selling one of his best horses to a Negro, went ahead and made the sale once he realized the money was just as good as anyone else's.  
  
The big bay chewed impatiently on his bit while his new owner finished saddling him. The animal stood well over sixteen hands, and with a deep wide chest, long belly and short back, he would be able to carry Nathan as far as he asked him to. Only one white stocking lay against his black legs and elegant reddish coloring. Not of a docile temperament, the big horse had a tendency to act impatient at the most inopportune times, but his speed and strength made up for his less than perfect personality.  
  
Nathan ran his hand over the animal's back and hip. It was amazing how much power this horse contained within his unique shape. Built for work, and yet there was an uncommon beauty affiliated with these beasts. They never asked for anything in return, except maybe a treat of some kind every once in a while. Pike wasn't any different. However, the horse seemed to be the most content while galloping across the land, as though that was where he belonged. His mane would move like branches in the wind, and his nostrils would flare as the sweet air entered his expanding lungs. It didn't take someone who wasn't familiar with this animal, to come to respect it. Unlike Nathan, and men like him, a horse demanded attention and respect. A horse was a source of life in the West, that's why it was a hanging offense to steal one of these animals.  
  
Carefully, Nathan placed his booted foot in the stirrup and slipped onto his horse's back. He wasn't sure where he was headed, other than he was going west. He nudged his heals against Pike's side and the big gelding took a long step forward. He was ready and willing to carry his master anywhere he asked him to.  
  
Once again, life was leading them both down an unfamiliar path.  
  
Chapter 11  
  
Pike hung his head as he treaded forward. The wind and rain came out of the sky with a vengeance and all creatures were trying to escape its viciousness. Nathan pulled his jacket up tighter around his neck trying to keep the chill from his bones. He wasn't in any hurry to get sick, not after surviving the war. Thankfully, he had an extra pair of socks that he was using as gloves at the moment. The weather was relentless and the big man knew he needed to find shelter, and fast.  
  
The Kansas Territory was similar to much of the land Nathan had traversed over the past year. It had its mountains, hills, and valleys, just like the others. However, it was a lot colder than the South…much colder.  
  
When the sight of buildings in the distance captured his attention, Nathan sighed in relief. Perhaps he could find someplace warm to stay for the night. Pike's ears perked up and the horse walked faster knowing he was going to be fed and put to bed.  
  
Nobody walked the streets. The rain and wind kept them from it. Smoke billowed out of the chimney of the saloon and Nathan headed for the livery to put his horse away.  
  
******  
  
"Shut the door!" Someone yelled from across the saloon floor.  
  
Nathan quickly shut the door and started to remove his scarf and wide brimmed hat. He was only here to get warm and a decent meal. He walked up to the bar, not paying much attention to the people around him. He didn't notice, or he tried not to, how everyone had quieted down and now sat staring at him.  
  
"We don't serve your kind," the bartender said, not wanting to make a scene.  
  
Nathan looked up and met his eyes. "I'm only lookin' for a meal and…"  
  
"We don't serve your kind," his voice was more aggressive this time.  
  
Nathan clenched his jaw and looked around the room. Nobody was willing to stand up for him, and once again he was alone. "I got as much right to be here as anyone." He looked hard at the bartender. "I ain't leavin' until I get a meal, that I can pay for, and have a chance to get warm." Nathan carefully pulled his knife out of his belt; he'd fight if he had to.  
  
"The man said, 'he don't serve your kind'," a big man wearing old haggard clothing said. His beard and mustache was full of the food he'd been eating. He stuck his thumbs in his suspenders and looked hard at Nathan.  
  
"I heard what he said," Nathan replied, unwilling to back down. He was a veteran, and a citizen of this country and he wasn't about to relinquish his rights. "I ain't leavin'."  
  
"Listen, boy."  
  
Whether it was the tone in which he said it, or the situation coming to a head. Nathan turned and threw his knife at the man who was slowly approaching him. The knife was imbedded in the pillar just to the side of the man's face.  
  
"I ain't your 'boy'," Nathan replied, looking hard and more determined to defend his rights than ever before.  
  
Many of the men in the room went back to their poker games, food, and drinks. They weren't willing to get involved, and this wasn't any consequence to them.  
  
The bearded man took a step back, and gripped the handle of his weapon. Nobody was going to get the better of him.  
  
"Don't bother, Harold." A strong voice echoed from across the room. The man stood up and headed over to the bar. His long blonde hair had been pulled back into a ponytail. His nose was long and narrow, but was stopped short by his handlebar mustache. He was a tall man with long arms and he seemed rather gangly as he walked across the floor.  
  
Harold, the bearded fellow, moved back away from the bar and he eyed the knife that was still embedded in the pillar next to his head.  
  
With a tilt of his head the tall blonde motioned for the bartender to pour him a drink. "You lookin' to get yourself killed?" He asked, directing his attention toward Nathan.  
  
"Lookin' for somthin' to eat is all," Nathan replied honestly. He reached up and pulled his knife out of the pillar then carefully wiped the blade on his pants before placing it back into his belt.  
  
"Pretty handy with that knife." The stranger looked at the holster strapped to Nathan's hip, wondering if he was as good with his pistol.  
  
"It's suffice." Nathan leaned back against the bar and nodded his head when a plate of warm food appeared in front of him. The bartender didn't look thrilled with the fact that he had to serve this man, but one look from the tall blond told him he'd better.  
  
"Name's Carter," the stranger said. "I'm the town sheriff." He looked for a response from the black man but he didn't get one.  
  
"I just stopped in to get a hot meal, I'll soon be on my way." Nathan scooped his spoon full of the hot stew and took a hearty bite.  
  
"Where're you headed?" Carter asked, more out of curiosity than anything else. He picked up his glass of beer and took a long sip.  
  
Nathan dipped his bread in the sauce and took another bite. "Just travelin'," he answered truthfully.  
  
Everyone jumped when the doors to the saloon burst open and two men entered. One was barely holding up the other as he escorted him to a chair. Someone else stood up and closed the doors as the two men tried to get comfortable. They were soaking wet and the man sitting in the chair was obviously suffering from a wound to his shoulder.  
  
"He come off 'is horse," the shorter of the two men said, moving away from his friend. "Branch punctured that arm." The boy obviously didn't know what to do.  
  
Nathan stepped forward, willing to help, but the looks that were thrown at him prevented it. "I can help," he offered.  
  
"Doctor's thirty miles from here, ain't no way we're goin' to be able to fetch 'im," someone from the crowd said, looking at the wounded man's bleeding arm.  
  
"I was a stretcher bearer durin' the war…" Nathan spoke up, "I can help." He wasn't interested in anything except helping.  
  
"He don't need no help from some nigger," Harold snapped stepping forward.  
  
"He needs help!" Sheriff Carter snapped, placing himself between the two men.  
  
"What's your name boy?" the man with the wounded shoulder asked.  
  
"Nathan Jackson."  
  
The man hissed when someone tried to help him get his coat off. Obviously he'd fallen from his horse and been impaled by a tree branch. "Well, Nathan, if'n you say you can help me…I'd be mighty grateful." He didn't care what Nathan's skin color was; his wounded arm was directing his decisions. "Name's Oren," he started to make conversation to keep himself busy while Nathan squatted down in front of him.  
  
Nathan hesitantly looked up and around at the crowd. He didn't have anyone to watch his back, and he took that under serious consideration. Carefully, he worked his fingers around the wound, checking for anything that might be harmful. He asked for a clean cloth, whiskey, and some sheets torn into long strips. Nobody said anything as they watched him. He was a young black man…helping a white man.  
  
"You talk real good for a Negro," Oren said between clenched teeth.  
  
Nathan just smiled and shook his head in disbelief. "Would you feel more comfortable if I didn't?"  
  
The sheriff laughed outright. "Answer that one, Oren," he responded, still chuckling.  
  
"Hell, I didn't mean nothin' by it." He shook his head. "Just…well ya'll know."  
  
Nathan tied the last bandage around Oren's waist and patted him gently on the shoulder. "You should keep that shoulder still for a few days…give that wound some time to heal up 'fore you use it much."  
  
Oren took a look at his arm that was now strapped to his chest. The pain had receded immensely, and he sighed in relief. "Can't thank ya enough…"  
  
"Nigger doctors…" Harold snapped, brushing past Nathan forcefully. "Watch your back out here, boy," the words slipped off his tongue bitterly before he exited the saloon.  
  
Oren reached up and shook Nathan's hand thankfully. "Thank ya," he said softly, before his friend helped him slip his coat on over his shoulders.  
  
"Nathan," Sheriff Carter said, walking up beside him, "can you come with me for a bit?" He asked so nobody could hear.  
  
Nathan nodded, hoping he wasn't in any kind of trouble. "I just need to pay for my meal…"  
  
"Already taken care of," the sheriff responded, taking the first step out of the saloon with a questioning Nathan following.  
  
******  
  
The sheriff's office was small with only two cells behind the desk. A wood stove burned vigorously in the corner of the room giving the room ample heat. A gun rack, and a cheaply made file cabinet rested against the far wall. Nothing out of the ordinary struck Nathan. The sheriff moved in and grabbed himself a cup of coffee and offered one to his guest, who quietly refused.  
  
"I'm goin' to have to lock you up for the night," Carter said outright. "Harold is a stupid fool lookin' to shoot someone and I won't have you bein' the first man to die in my town." The words were soft but strong. "I've only been sheriff here for 'bout eight months, moved here a few months after the war and I aim to stay."  
  
"I can leave now, if it's a problem me bein' here."  
  
Carter shook his head: "It ain't you. Some of these folks 'ave lived here their whole lives, ain't even seen a colored man, much less got to know one. I only want to protect you."  
  
"So you're gonna lock me up?" Nathan's words weren't harsh, just confused.  
  
"You have any place to go…with winter comin' on strong like it is?"  
  
"No, but…"  
  
"There's an Indian village, 'bout fifteen miles south of here," Carter leaned against his desk, his words were softer and they almost sounded pleading to Nathan's ears, "it's a small band of Apache, a few runaways met up with 'em couple years 'for the war." He looked up and noticed his guest seemed interested. "Some of 'em are sufferin' pretty bad, and could use some help…such as yours."  
  
"I heard stories 'bout the Apache…"  
  
"Not everythin' you hear is true. This is a real small band. Came up north from the Unorganized Territory after the army slaughtered some of their youngins." The sheriff placed his coffee cup on his desk.  
  
"What 'bout the army doctors?" Nathan asked, not willing to step on anyone's toes.  
  
"These are Indians we're talkin' about, not soldiers. Army doctors are 'bout as good as a dead horse." Carter shook his head in disgust. "If you go out there and help 'em, it'll give you a place for the winter, warm food, a good place to sleep, and plenty of care for your horse."  
  
"I'll go," Nathan responded confidently. If these people could really use his help, he was more than willing.  
  
Sheriff Carter smiled: "You won't regret it." He stood up and headed for one of the cells. "I won't lock it, but it'll be the safest place for you tonight."  
  
"And warmest," Nathan responded with a grin.  
  
The sheriff chuckled and patted Nathan on the shoulder as he entered the small cell. "I'll bring you over some food, and get you a few things for the ride tomorrow." He shut the cell but didn't lock it, and he looked long and hard at the man who was now sitting on the small cot. "My wife is out there."  
  
Nathan looked up in surprise. "Alone?" He asked, not understanding the sheriff's meaning.  
  
Carter shook his head: "She's with her people."  
  
Nathan nodded.  
  
"And she's with child," there was that pleading again. The sheriff's eyes softened dramatically and he let his hands fall to his side.  
  
"I understand," Nathan said softly, leaning back against the bed. He understood completely.  
  
******  
  
Though the rain had stopped the wind continued in full force. Winter was well on its way. Nathan finished saddling Pike and led the reluctant beast out of the barn. Sheriff Carter was waiting in front of his office. A younger man, much younger, stood with his coat pulled up around his face and his hands covering his mouth. Probably keeping them warm with his breath. His hat hung low on his head, but his gangly form and immature stance let Nathan know the boy was just that…a boy.  
  
"Ready?" Carter asked Nathan, who had just ridden up. He watched as his companion nodded, and then he looked back down to the boy. "Make sure Harold stays in the saloon 'till I get back," he ordered.  
  
"If'n he don't?" The boy, who was now playing deputy, asked.  
  
"Arrest 'im," Carter replied with a smile. "If he still refuses…shoot 'im." He slid onto the back of his mount and looked down at the boy. "I'm makin' sure Mister Jackson gets escorted out of town, that way, he won't be comin' back." Though the words were a lie, they still hurt.  
  
"Yes sir," the boy replied, and then watched as the two men made their way out of town.  
  
******  
  
Nathan looked out over the land with his scarf covering his face and neck. "Why're you helpin' them?" He went ahead and asked. His scarf muffled the clarity of his voice, but he was still understandable.  
  
"S'pose I could ask you the same thing," Carter responded, looking over at his charge.  
  
Nathan nodded.  
  
"I left home when I was just a boy, couldn't stand my father," he said the words with a chuckle, but the pain was evident. "I later met up with some Indians and learned that the stories about 'em were just that…stories. Then when the war started, I enlisted, figured I could do somethin' about the treatment of people." He looked up ahead, making sure they were on the right path. "My father was a slave breaker in Virginia…" he shrugged, "weren't just slaves he was breakin', so I left."  
  
Nathan sighed in understanding. Men could be brutal…without even trying.  
  
"After the war I got real sick an' stumbled in on this camp," he spoke fondly of the Indians, "they saved my life an' I figure it's my responsibility to do everythin' I can to protect 'em."  
  
"That how you met your wife?"  
  
Carter nodded: "Cloa."  
  
The rest of the trip was held in silence and surprisingly it didn't take as long as anyone would have thought. The Indian camp was held in a small valley surrounded by trees and hills. The wind had lessened considerably and Nathan quietly wondered if it wasn't because of their location, as opposed to the weather change. There were only a few tepees, and fires burned all around the camp. A small herd of horses was located just to the side of the encampment next to a steady stream of fresh mountain water. Women worked diligently on skins, preparing them for whatever use they might need.  
  
Unlike the stories Nathan had heard, there wasn't any naked savages running around with painted faces. There weren't any people being sacrificed, and nobody was screaming to their gods.  
  
When a tepee flap opened a young woman exited with a swollen belly, Carter dismounted his horse and rushed for his wife. Just like himself, Nathan thought, very human indeed. He smiled to himself and slowly dismounted. He removed the scarf from around his face and looked more intently at the surroundings.  
  
"Carter," a man called, stepping out from his tepee. His buckskin clothing moved in unison with his every movement. His long graying hair moved gently in the breeze. He stepped up to Carter and gave him a warm embrace. "It has been too long." His smile created warmth around him; so strong even Nathan could feel it.  
  
"Gall," Carter acknowledged. He turned and looked toward his guest. "This is Nathan Jackson…he's a healer."  
  
Gall looked curiously at the tall black man, and then grinned. "Dark healer's have powerful magic," a tinge of humor laced his words. He stuck his arm out and when Nathan reached up to shake it Gall grabbed his elbow. "Come," he ordered and then headed for his tent. "Lets eat!"  
  
Carter laughed: "Gall does like his food…though, by lookin' at 'im you'd never know it," he sighed, and then followed his friend.  
  
Cloa reached out and took Nathan's hand. "Come," her voice was soft and inviting, and the big man couldn't help but follow her into the tent.  
  
******  
  
Skins of all kinds were laid out on the floor of the tepee. Nathan was surprised at how warm it was inside the rawhide walls. A fire burned uneventfully in the center of the room. Three men sat around the fire, including Gull, who was relaxed and completely content in his surroundings. Carter sat next to him, while his wife moved in behind him to work on some skins.  
  
"Sit," Gull ordered, looking up at Nathan. He motioned with his hand to a place where his guest would be most comfortable.  
  
Nathan nodded and slid down onto his backside. He rested his elbows on his knees as he watched and listened to the men around him.  
  
"If you are a healer, what do you heal?" Gull asked, keeping his face strong and determined.  
  
Nathan looked at him in surprise. "Anythin' that needs healin'," he answered softly.  
  
Gull laughed, exposing more of his quirky sense of humor. Nathan and the others laughed along with him.  
  
"Are you the chief?" Nathan asked, feeling more comfortable.  
  
"My people have no chief, not since Crowfoot," A seriousness blanketed him. "He was killed, six summers ago…now, it is just us."  
  
Nathan didn't need to be told the details. He understood that the army had killed most of Gull's people. "Carter said you were in need of help?" Nathan changed the subject.  
  
Gull nodded: "Yes, my people are suffering."  
  
"I'd like to help."  
  
"Yes," Gull accepted without question.  
  
Chapter 12  
  
Though there weren't many people in the tribe, several were ill or suffering from simple corruption that had gotten out of hand. Nathan quickly remedied many of them, cutting children's gums so they could teethe properly, and pulling rotten teeth from those who needed it.  
  
It wasn't long before Nathan was pulling simple splinters out of children's fingers. The people adored him. The Indian healer, Quanah, taught Nathan about herbs and how to make poultices and teas. Plants such as Dandelions and Coltsfoot, which were common enough to find, were extremely medicinal. Even Corn Silk could be used for treatments. In return Nathan showed Quanah how to do simple procedures that could save lives, such as pulling teeth.  
  
Women's illnesses were something Nathan had ever even breeched, until now. There wasn't much call for him to learn about such things during the war. Here, however, he learned how to help a woman give birth, and how to care for a small infant. Living with these people had been more of a learning experience than he ever anticipated. Wounds and illnesses on the battlefield differed dramatically than the wounds in a smaller, quieter, atmosphere. Here it was children who needed him more, everything from broken fingernails to scraped knees.  
  
Though the winter months had been colder than Nathan had ever remembered, everyone stayed warm. Frostbite was…nonexistent. Coats and boots were made out of buffalo hides. Fires burned constantly within the tepees, and a few outside burned all the time. Warm water was available at all times, and nobody went hungry. It was as though nobody knew about these people, so they weren't bothered. Carter made sure they had beef to butcher, but they never really needed it. Venison was always available. This camp of people, men, women, and children, worked better than the military camps and hospital environments. It was as though they belonged here, and they embraced their surroundings…to the fullest.  
  
******  
  
Gull stepped up to where Nathan was sitting. He'd just fixed a child's doll, a healer in all things. He looked up and smiled, inviting with his hand for Gull to take a seat. Spring had arrived in full force and plants were blooming to their full potential.  
  
"Cloa's child does well," Gull said, looking toward his family.  
  
"Carter seems to be pleased," Nathan chuckled, watching the new father carry his child proudly behind his wife, who could only shake her head. The boy had been born two months ago, and because he had been there he was able to save the baby who wanted to enter the world in the breech position.  
  
"He makes a good father, though I fear he is blind to what will become of his family," there was a sadness in the usual jovial tone that Gull spoke with.  
  
"Why do you say that?" Nathan asked.  
  
Gull smiled sadly: "A half blood is seen no differently than you or I." He nodded toward Carter, who was getting ready to head back to town.  
  
Nathan nodded in understanding. He knew what it was like to be looked down upon simply because of what he looked like. He knew that more than most.  
  
"Where will you go now?" Gull asked quietly.  
  
"Figure I'd go south for a while, see what the land has in store for me there."  
  
Gull reached into his belt and pulled out a simply made harness. "For your skill with the knife…in both healing and killing."  
  
Nathan took the harness and looked it over. There were three holsters on the strap that would hang perfectly across his back and shoulders. The leather was soft and supple and made to be strong.  
  
"Thank you," Nathan said, looking at the item. Now he wouldn't have to carry his knives in his belt.  
  
"I should go," Gull said, getting to his feet. "I told Kansa I would bring her many hides to tan before dark," his voice was deep and full of authority.  
  
Nathan looked at the sun that was almost ready to go down. "How many do you have?" He asked out of curiosity.  
  
Gull pressed his lips together: "None."  
  
Nathan choked and started laughing at the 'leader' of these people who quickly headed toward his tepee. Gull was not a lazy individual by any standards, but he always had a way of getting into trouble with his wife, who thankfully, took his sense of humor with a laugh of her own. Nathan continued to shake his head as he watched Carter walk up with his horse trailing behind him.  
  
"I understand that you're leavin'?" Carter asked, slipping his horse's reins into his left hand.  
  
Nathan nodded and stood up. "Figured it was time for me to head on."  
  
Carter stuck out his hand and smiled when Nathan returned with a shake of his own. "You ever need anythin'…" he didn't bother finishing the statement.  
  
"Thank you…for everything."  
  
The sheriff looked around for a moment before moving to his horse's side to mount up. Nathan watched him for a moment, feeling strange about saying goodbye. He didn't understand why, just that he did.  
  
"Take care, Nathan," Carter said, before moving his horse toward town.  
  
"You too!" The healer called, feeling somewhat empty. This strange place had served as a home for the past few months, and he had enjoyed it. But he knew it was time to move on.  
  
Chapter 13  
  
1872  
  
The West was not what the stories wanted people to believe. Indians and gunslingers weren't that common, though Nathan was sure they would be if he entered the right town. However, the majority of the West was filled with windmills and barbed wire. Towns weren't common and many times the ones that started with a boom, quickly disappeared along with the money. A man's horse was his livelihood. It wasn't any wonder why horse theft was a hanging offense. Between the small towns were even smaller farms, many of which had been abandoned, hills, mountains, trees, and valleys. Markers for water could be found at most trails, however, many had been destroyed by time and neglect.  
  
The larger cities, surprisingly, were more accepting of colored men and women. Cowboys were more than just white men on horseback. Men of all colors rode on cattle drives, the only requirements were the ability to shoot, ride, and tolerate dust. While on his trek south, Nathan worked on several drives, not as a cowhand or line cook, but rather aiding sick cowboys. Things like blisters, broken bones, and more often dehydration, were what the healer dealt with. Just because it was small potatoes to Nathan didn't mean the cowboys suffering from the ailments weren't thankful to get treatment. Nathan saw his ride south as simply a learning opportunity. He learned about people, wounds, and himself.  
  
******  
  
Nathan entered the small town and took a good look around. There wasn't much, but it was livable. A few buildings lined the only street that harbored a saloon, newspaper, hotel, and a few other small buildings. Obviously, this little metropolis was in its first stages of building. The streets weren't bustling with activity, most of the activity seemed to be centered around the hardware store. As he got closer to the activity, Nathan noticed the 'Grand Opening' sign waving in the gentle breeze outside the store.  
  
The people seemed friendly, hard working individuals trying to build their livings out in the middle of nowhere. The town sheriff leaned against the railing in front of the hotel watching the new arrival. Nathan dismounted in front of the livery, intending to take care of his horse and then himself.  
  
The liveryman stepped out of the building wearing a leather apron that was stained with manure, burns, and watermarks. His beard hung past the collar of his shirt and his big hat made him look like a character from an old wives tale.  
  
"What can I get'cha?"  
  
Nathan fingered his horse's reins, unsure if he was going to be accepted or shunned. "His right front shoe is loose, I was going to replace…" he paused watching as the liveryman moved to Pike's side and lifted up his hoof.  
  
"It's loose all right," he said, releasing the hoof. "I can get that fixed in no time. You gonna be in town a while?"  
  
"Not rightly sure."  
  
"Name's Tiny, or Yosemite, dependin' on your hurry," he said with a chuckle. He stuck his hand out for the newcomer to shake.  
  
"Nathan Jackson," he responded, taking Tiny's hand gratefully.  
  
"I'll 'ave your horse ready late this s'afternoon." Tiny smiled and led the animal into the livery, leaving Nathan to look around the town.  
  
******  
  
"Ya new in town?" The bartender asked, serving his new customer a warm beer.  
  
"Just arrived," Nathan responded quietly.  
  
"Ya plan on stayin'?"  
  
Nathan looked up, wondering if the question was a warning.  
  
"If'n ya are, make sure ya got plenty of bullets on hand…" the bartender sighed, wiping down the counter top. "Damn cowboys can't keep their hands off anythin' and they's always bustin' up the joint…"  
  
"Seems like a quiet enough place," Nathan said, noticing there weren't many people in the saloon and those that were only sat quietly playing poker and drinking their beers.  
  
"Some days is better than others," the bartender snapped. "Decent folks have to come into town early, 'fore Garrison an' his men show up."  
  
"Wouldn't know it by lookin' at the place."  
  
"If'n you're good with your hands…there's lots of work for you here. Last carpenter we had done quit."  
  
"There a doctor in town?" Nathan asked in curiosity.  
  
The bartender laughed: "If you're in need of a doctor you best saddle up now and ride, cuz there ain't one around for miles. Take you a full day just to find one and then he might not even be there."  
  
"How come you're still 'round?"  
  
"Cuz I don't have sense enough to pour piss out of a boot," came the sarcastic reply. "Besides, can't get no one to buy this place from me." He leaned against the bar and looked hard at Nathan. "People here want a good life, and many come here thinkin' they're goin' to change things, but they ain't…not in this town…" he didn't finish the statement, instead he just let his words hang.  
  
"Ya ever have any trouble with…" Nathan cleared his throat intending to finish.  
  
"Colored folks?" The bartender raised his eyebrows, guessing the stranger's dilemma. "Never had much trouble, got quite a few colored farmers workin' outside of town, and quite a few cowhands, but most stick to their own business." He went back to cleaning his glasses.  
  
Nathan nodded in understanding. Perhaps he could make a place for himself here, for a while anyway. Obviously the town needed someone who could mend wounds, and treat the ill. Plus, he wouldn't be the only black person in the area.  
  
******  
  
Tiny was more than willing to rent out the large room above the livery. The owner, a Mister Smith, lived in Denver and left the business in Tiny's care. Repairing the staircase to the room was Nathan's responsibility, and he took it gratefully.  
  
The room was already furnished; someone looked to have lived in the room and then left suddenly, leaving everything behind. Cobwebs, dust, and years of coal dust covered everything in the room. Everything had to be cleaned. If Nathan was going to use this room to treat the wounded and the ill, it needed to be spotless. He spent hours washing blankets, pounding out the mattress, scrubbing the floors, and washing windows. For the first time in his life he had a place to call home. His home. Though it wasn't grand it was still home.  
  
He was only in town a few days before he was called upon for help. A fight at the saloon had sent a cowboy through the glass window, and he sliced his hand in the process. The wound wasn't severe, but like most injuries, without attention it could be.  
  
He was a healer.  
  
The shelving units in Nathan's room were quickly filled with herbs, tinctures, and oils. With the little money he made from not only treating people, but animals as well, he was able to purchase alcohol that he stored away for medicinal purposes. He even carved a sign 'Bones set, Wounds healed', letting people know he was there to help.  
  
******  
  
It wasn't easy, being a black man who not only wanted to help anyone in need, but also being a strong black man, who didn't bend to tyranny. He'd been beaten and whipped enough in his life, but not anymore. He was a free man now. He'd fought long and hard to become one, and he wasn't going to let just anyone take that away from him. Part of proving who he was, was his ability to ignore the comments, cruelties, and general disrespect people often showed him. He took his pride and made himself a better man, treating anyone who needed help, despite their protests.  
  
Chapter 14  
  
Mason Wilson wasn't anything if he wasn't hard working. He'd been born on a dirt farm and grew up plowing fields, and cutting grain. Many would say it was in his blood, others would simply argue that he was too stubborn to quit. His wife of ten years was just as tough as he was, spending her time milking their cows, caring for their three children, and maintaining their house.  
  
When Mr. Wilson entered town on his old mule. His haggard appearance captured the attention of everyone around him. His clothing hadn't been washed in a long time, his hair lay plastered to his scalp, and the dark circles under his eyes made him appear paler than he actually was.  
  
"Ya'll right, Mason?" Gil Potter asked, stepping out of his store.  
  
"I uh…need some things for the boys," he wiped his brow free of the beads of sweat. "They're awful sick."  
  
"Isaac," Mr. Potter yelled for his son, "go fetch Nathan for Mister Wilson."  
  
"I don't want his help, " Mason snapped.  
  
"Don't be a fool…"  
  
"I don't want that man nowhere's near my family." Mason straitened his thin shoulders and stormed into the store.  
  
Gil shook his head. He only knew Nathan Jackson from the few meetings he'd had with the man when he would come into the store for supplies. But Gil knew he was a good judge of character, and he genuinely liked the town's healer. He looked up in time to see Nathan cross the street from the saloon. The healer's hat hung low on his head, blocking out the sun's bright rays. His light jacket covered the knives strapped to his back. Gil only knew about them because of the leather oil Nathan had ordered to keep the harness in supple condition.  
  
"Mornin', Mr. Potter," Nathan said, tipping his hat to the man.  
  
"Can I talk to ya a sec?" Gil pulled the healer aside.  
  
Nathan looked at the shop owner in concern. He knew something was wrong, but obviously the man wanted to keep things quiet. "Everythin' all right?" He asked out of concern.  
  
"You familiar with the Wilson farm, 'bout ten miles out'a town?"  
  
"I know of it."  
  
Gil was about to continue but Mason stepped out of the store with some supplies wrapped in brown paper. His steps were quick and determined, but Nathan noticed the man's sickly complexion, and the obvious fever he was suffering from.  
  
"Ya'll right, sir?" Nathan asked, moving away from Mr. Potter's attention.  
  
"Stay away from me and my family!" Mason snapped, then quickly mounted his mule and rode out of town.  
  
Gil stepped up beside Nathan and grasped the big man's arm. "He's got three boys…"  
  
"Measles," Nathan said, he could tell right away just by looking at the man what the problem was.  
  
"Mason's a good man, just set in his ways." Gil looked at his own children, knowing that he'd never let his own feelings jeopardize their lives.  
  
Nathan nodded: "I'll see to them," he reassured, heading toward his makeshift clinic.  
  
******  
  
The trek out to the Wilson homestead wasn't eventful, and as with most of Nathan's rides, he ended up thinking more about things in his life that had made him the man he was today. At thirty-five years of age, he knew more than most, and not as much as others. His body was scarred from the brutalities of slavery, and the harshness of war. His heart though, had been protected, unlike so many others. As a boy he always knew he wouldn't be a slave forever, as if something deep down inside him continuously told him that until one day he believed it. The fire inside him hadn't died over the years; instead, it got stronger…making him stronger.  
  
The words people spoke to him in disrespect always hurt, and sometimes they were viciously cruel, but Nathan wanted to look deeper than on the outer side of someone. He wanted to know what made people the way there were, just as his past had helped form himself. He wasn't young and submissive anymore, always looking for the next beating, or yearning to escape the clutches of some angry mob. Now, he was the one people went to when they needed aid in some way. He was the person they brought their children to with a broken arm or and illness. Some came hesitantly, some came fighting and screaming…but they still came.  
  
******  
  
The Wilson's homestead wasn't large, but it was well cared for. The house was small, and the smoke from the chimney let Nathan know everyone was inside. Their dog, a large beast with long brown fur, sat at the door, unwilling to let anyone pass. He didn't bark, or attempt to go after the intruder, but rather he waited for the man's first move.  
  
"Mr. Wilson!" Nathan called, unwilling to take the chance of going to the house. Mason Wilson didn't seem over friendly to the dark healer and he wasn't about to get shot.  
  
The front door creaked open and a fine boned hand reached out pushing the dog away. "What do ya need?" The woman's voice softly asked.  
  
Nathan had to take a few steps closer just to understand what she was saying. "I noticed your husband in town, ma'am, an' he was lookin' mighty peaked. Everybody doin' all right?"  
  
"We's doin' fine," she responded, stepping out into full view. Her thin face was flushed from fever. It was obvious she was ill as well.  
  
"I'm a healer, ma'am."  
  
"You're black," she said, as though she was the first to break the news to him.  
  
Nathan stifled a chuckle, obviously. "I learned a few things durin' the war. Thought maybe I could help…if'n you're in need of it."  
  
The woman looked back inside and then to Nathan before she reached for something inside the house and immediately walked towards him. "My husband, Mason, he done bought this in town today, but I don't think it's gonna work." She handed him the bottle of 'snake oil'. "The boys 'ave been sick near a week now, and they's gettin' worse." She grabbed Nathan's arm and started pulling him toward the house.  
  
Nathan reached out and gently patted her hand. "I need to fetch my bags," he told her softly, and then rushed for his things. The woman never left his side. It was obvious she was ill, very ill, but her children would come first. "Where is Mister Wilson?" He asked, just to make sure.  
  
"He's inside. When he got back from town he's too sick to work the land, so's I put 'im to bed." She grabbed Nathan's arm again and started dragging him to the house when he wasn't walking fast enough for her.  
  
******  
  
There were only two rooms in the home, and one was used as the bedroom for everyone. It wasn't a wonder that the whole family was ill. The two boys were bedridden, as well as the baby who screamed from its cradle.  
  
"I don't want 'im here!" Mason yelled, trying to get up out of his bed. "Beverly!"  
  
Nathan stood in the doorway, unsure if it was in his right to treat people that didn't want to be treated.  
  
"My oldest son, Ben, come down with it first," Mason's wife ignored her husband and pulled Nathan toward the bed with her two sons.  
  
"BEVERLY!" Mason yelled again, collapsing on the bed.  
  
"You can yell all you want when you're better, Mason Wilson!" The woman snapped, silencing her husband. Beverly placed her palm on her head and then slipped into a chair next to her children's bed.  
  
Nathan stepped forward. He had a lot to do.  
  
******  
  
Just like most diseases, the measles, were deadly. However, if caught in time they didn't have to be. With some herbs he'd learned to use at the Indian village, and some techniques he learned on the battlefield, Nathan quickly had the family feeling better. The youngest boy, Charlie, had perished the first night the healer had arrived. The baby was just too weak to fight anymore, but the older boys, though they were sicker than their parents, recovered quicker and it wasn't long before they were out doing chores and helping Nathan.  
  
Mason had finally come to the realization that he needed the help after losing his son. Though he wasn't happy about it, he did tolerate Nathan's much needed presence. It took the healer four days to feel comfortable enough to leave the family under their own care. But the fact remained he was able to.  
  
Nathan tightened the cinch around Pike's girth, getting ready for the ride back to town. It was late, and the sun was making its way down for the night.  
  
"I want to thank ya, for what ya done," Mason said, stepping up behind the healer.  
  
"Your family was sick, and I was able to help. Ain't no reason to thank me for that."  
  
"All the same." Mason moved his feet nervously. "We ain't got much money to pay ya, but my wife put this here bag together for ya." He handed Nathan a knapsack full of preserves.  
  
"Thank you," Nathan said, taking the bag gratefully and then he slipped it into his saddlebags.  
  
"Well," Mason said, looking toward his house, "I'll be seein' ya." He tipped his head and started walking toward his home.  
  
Nathan watched him go, knowing how odd it was to feel grateful to someone, while at the same time not knowing how to show it. He put his foot in his stirrup and slipped into the saddle. He needed to get going, the ride back to town was long, and at night it made for being longer.  
  
******  
  
The bright glow from the fire in the distance broke Nathan of his quiet solitude. He was familiar with the old church that was barely standing. Truthfully it wasn't standing at all, except for a small portion of the foyer, and even then there wasn't much there. He kicked his horse in the direction of the old church with the intentions of finding out who was there. He wasn't a fool, and he knew there were more outlaws in the area than he cared to admit, but he needed a break and his horse was more than willing to test the waters.  
  
The closer he got to the camp the more he could see. There was only one horse tied off to the side of the camp. A lone figure sat behind the fire, drinking a hot cup of coffee while watching the mesmerizing blazes.  
  
"Hello the camp!" Nathan called, riding up so the stranger could see that he wasn't a threat. The man nodded, and with the tilt of his head motioned for Nathan to dismount and join him. "Mind if I share your fire for a while?"  
  
"Don't see why not," the stranger responded.  
  
"I'm Nathan Jackson," he introduced himself, and stuck his hand out for the stranger to shake. "I'm the healer in Four Corners."  
  
"Josiah Sanchez."  
  
Nathan nodded and then seated himself on a rock not far from the fire.  
  
"There's coffee, you're welcome to it."  
  
"Thank you," Nathan gratefully responded. "You travelin' through?" He questioned, retaking his seat on the rock.  
  
"No," the big man chuckled. "I've lived 'round here a long time."  
  
"Haven't seen you in town, an' 'round here people don't last too long ridin' alone," it was an observation, not a threat.  
  
"Most, brother, but not all," there was that chuckle again.  
  
"Guess you're right," Nathan softly responded. He'd heard stories of a man like Josiah, one with great strength and character. Nathan wasn't about to find out if this was the man.  
  
"Folks around here must keep you pretty busy, seein' that you're the only doctor in the area."  
  
"I ain't a real doctor, just know how to treat a few wounds and sicknesses. But you're right, there ain't any doctors in the area so I do stay pretty busy…but even so, it's hard for a Negro to get many people to trust us."  
  
"Negro or not, son, it's hard for everyone," Josiah responded knowingly.  
  
"Just left the Wilson's homestead, whole family came down with the measles…saved everyone but the youngest boy."  
  
"You did the best you could, that's all anyone can ask." Josiah spoke with a strong confidence.  
  
"Just wish I could do more."  
  
"But do not forget to do good and to share for with such sacrifices God is well pleased." Josiah quoted, "Hebrews, chapter 13 verse 16."  
  
"You a preacher or somethin'?"  
  
"I used to be…" Josiah nodded, "but I'm not one anymore."  
  
"Do you miss it?" Nathan asked, feeling more comfortable with his surroundings.  
  
"No…I don't."  
  
Nathan nodded in understanding.  
  
"I haven't seen many Negro healers in my travels…" there wasn't any malice in his words, "how'd you come by it?"  
  
"I was a stretcher bearer durin' the war, learned what I could." He sighed and then continued, "Got tired of watchin' people die, thought I could do somethin' to help."  
  
"That's a noble thing to do."  
  
"After I escaped from the plantation all I wanted to do was be free and fightin' in the war seemed to be the right thing to do…" Nathan smiled when he noticed the man's interest hadn't dwindled, "when I came here I discovered the town didn't have a doctor, so I figured I help those that were willin'." He watched the flames of the fire burn intently. "What are you doin' all the way out here?"  
  
"Exercising my demons," Josiah replied with a joyful laugh.  
  
Nathan joined in with laughter of his own. In many ways they were both 'exercising' their demons, only in different ways.  
  
Chapter 15  
  
Nathan woke to the sound of someone pounding on his room door. He pulled his weapon from the holster he kept next to his bed and walked carefully to the door. The suspenders of his pants hung past his hips and his bare feet hit the warm floor with trepidation.  
  
"We need some help!" A man's voice called out of desperation.  
  
Nathan lit his lamp and then opened the door with his gun ready. The town had become violent and over the past two years. Every outlaw with a gun and the desire to drink came here to make trouble. The only reason Nathan stayed was because he was needed.  
  
"What do you need?" Nathan asked, as he pulled the door open.  
  
"Trail boss took a bullet in the leg," the tallest cowboy responded, helping anther man hold up the skinny little man between them.  
  
Nathan moved quickly out of the way and watched as the men brought the man inside. "Put 'im on the bed," he ordered and then moved over to look at the wound. Just by the smell he knew the wound was bad.  
  
The two cowboys moved off to the side to watch, not really trusting this 'man' to help their boss, but he was the only person available that could help.  
  
Nathan ripped open the pant leg and took a long look at the seeping wound. Corruption had already set it, and the leg was going putrid. The man was going to die. It was already too late to try and amputate the leg, the corruption had too widely spread.  
  
"I'll do what I can for 'im…"  
  
"He lives, and if'n he don't, we'll bury you right after 'im." The man's voice was harsh and full of anger.  
  
Nathan sighed and then nodded his head. He'd do what he could for the man, but he already knew it was hopeless.  
  
******  
  
The two cowboys had had taken up residence outside of the room Nathan was treating their boss in. Both had become sick at the sight of the leg and eventually had to stand and wait out in the open. Nathan looked down at the man he'd tried so hard to save, but he'd failed. It had only been a few moments since he'd drawn his last breath, but the fear of 'what would happen next' sat on his mind like a heavy weight.  
  
When a light tapping came from the door Nathan jumped. A woman with blonde hair quietly crept in, not wanting to disturb the two men who had dozed outside. Mary Travis covered her mouth and nose, trying to keep the room's odor from making her ill.  
  
"How is he, Nathan?" She asked, concern was written all over her face.  
  
Nathan shook his head.  
  
"We could…"  
  
"How is he?" One of the cowboys asked, bursting into the room. He shoved Mary out of the way and moved toward the bed. "You and your kind ain't worth nothin'," came the angry reply after he'd noticed his boss was dead. "Cooper!"  
  
The other cowboy entered the room and with a signal from his friend helped get their boss up so they could get him buried.  
  
"You best not go nowhere's, boy, we'll be back…an' don't even think 'bout runnin', we'll hunt you like a dog."  
  
Nathan watched as the two men carried their boss from the room. He shook his head in disbelief. Things would only get worse when they consumed a little alcohol, and he knew they would.  
  
"I'll go find some help," Mary said, rushing out of the room.  
  
The healer appreciated her help, or the help she was willing to offer but he knew it wouldn't be enough. Mary had taken over the local newspaper after the death of her husband, and Nathan only knew her from a couple of short meetings. However, the woman got involved in everything. This was her home as well and she intended to see it taken care of. It was hard for everyone who had come here years ago and helped settle this town, to watch it turn into the hellhole it had become.  
  
Nathan looked around his room, his room, and sighed. There were over fifty men on that cattle drive that had ended just two days ago. All of those men would know that he wasn't able to save their boss, and everyone of them would be out looking for him as though he was the fox, and they the hunters.  
  
It wasn't long before the door to his room burst open and a rope was tied around his neck. He protested, fought, and tried to explain that there wasn't anything to be done. Mr. Fallon had died and nothing could have prevented it. But they wouldn't listen. Everything around him seemed to become a blur as they half dragged; half carried him out of his room and down the stairs. He didn't want to die, not like this. They forced him into the back of a wagon and he looked wildly around. Nathan needed a miracle, or this group of drunken cowhands, and worthless outlaws were going to hang him.  
  
A miracle indeed…  
  
Chapter 16  
  
1874  
  
The present…  
  
Nathan looked at his father and sighed. It had been so long. Obadiah rested peacefully against the pillows. His breathing was short and forced, but he was breathing. There were times Nathan could get so angry, and at the same time he missed everything about his father. Obadiah had taught his son how to survive. Surviving, as a free man and surviving as a slave were as different as night and day. But because Nathan had his father's guidance as a boy and young adult he knew how to live in the free world, even though he'd never been raised in it.  
  
"I's born a slave," Obadiah said, with shallow breaths, "but I'll die a free man." There was happiness in his dying breaths.  
  
"Thank you, daddy," Nathan said softly, letting his tears stream down his face.  
  
Obadiah reached out and took his son's hand. Tears appeared from under his closed eyelids. In many ways his life had been completed. Though he didn't know where his daughters were, in his heart he knew they were free, and possibly living full lives…like his son. His wildest dream had come true. His son had made a life for himself, a strong life with even stronger ties. How could a parent ask for more than that? His son had friends…family, and most of all self respect.  
  
"I'll give your momma…a kiss for you…when I see 'er." He wanted to say the words before he fell back to sleep.  
  
Nathan choked, not wanting to lose all of his composure. "You do that."  
  
"Love you, son," the words were barley audible, but they were there.  
  
Nathan clasped tightly onto his father's hand as he fell asleep for the last time. The healer wept like he'd never done before, for reasons he was just now starting to understand.  
  
The End  
  
Notes: The term 'Disease of the Mind' was actually used to explain a slave's desire to escape, and it was created by a doctor who went on to say: "The only cure was to 'whip the devil out of them'."  
  
It wasn't until 1862 that black troops were 'officially' sent out into the fields to fight, and even then their numbers were fairly small. However, in 1863, the numbers grew dramatically and the United States Colored Troops, USCT, fought bravely all over the South. They were soon found very helpful because many had been former slaves and knew the land better than the white soldiers did. 


End file.
